


Don't turn away

by rossetti, sloganeer



Series: diedandreborn [4]
Category: Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-30
Updated: 2009-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-04 08:47:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 50,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rossetti/pseuds/rossetti, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sloganeer/pseuds/sloganeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon wakes up, and Spencer is singing in the shower. Always with the music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't turn away

**Author's Note:**

> Daily stories, in order; beware inconsistencies.

"I can play bass, too!" Brendon smiles at him. He doesn't smile back.

"Oh?" His bass is tuned so he starts playing a soft bassline, not strong enough to overrule conversation but strong enough to make a point as he looks over at Brendon. He doesn't let their gaze drop as he walks closer to Brendon, sitting on a bench in front of the keyboard. He's making too much of a point, maybe, but he stops himself before he gets too obnoxious, before he's looming over Brendon. He bites his lip, turning away, not dropping the beat.

"Yeah, OK," Brendon say softly behind him. He plunks a soft melody on the piano, something subtle and well suited to the unrelenting rhythm Spencer's won't let go of.

"What about guitar?" he offers. It's not that Ryan can't play, just that they could do so much more with another rhythm guitar, really expand their sound. It's would be good for the band, but Brendon's dejected tone doesn't hurt. He wants to offer a branch.

"I can play that, too," Brendon nods, eyes flickering over to Ryan's guitar, still resting next to the amp Ryan set it on when he left for home. Spencer slows down, tries a new variation. Brendon follows him, plays a new melody, but he's still slumped over.

"So, go put on a guitar already," he jerks his chin at the guitar, even though Brendon can't see him.

"Yeah?" Brendon turns around, is halfway out of his seat before Spencer nods. Brendon slides it on smoothly, adjusts the strap up so the guitar rides above his hips. Not that Spencer's looking.

"Well, c'mon," he walks closer again but tries not to make it aggressive this time. He expects Brendon to jump right in but Brendon stops to tune the guitar, with one quick guilty look up at him. He rolls his eyes. He knows Ryan doesn't tune it that well or that often, Brendon doesn't need to feel guilty.

He wants Brendon to hurry up and play something cause his hand is getting tired but he's not going to fucking say that. Brendon starts with one of Ryan's songs, with a melody he's heard but never played, but he nails it.

"You really," Brendon bites his lip, steps closer to him. "You're really the one keeping the beat, have you ever noticed that?"

Spencer stops. He's noticed. He shrugs. It's not like they have another option for a drummer. Brent's been their friend forever, got his first kit because they said they needed a drummer. He follows Spencer's lead, sure, but that's not necessarily a bad thing.

Brendon hasn't stopped, is playing something Spencer doesn't recognize. It's good, fun. "I like that," he nods at Brendon. Brendon smiles, steps closer to him.

"Yeah?" Brendon asks it as if it's a dare.

"Yup." He stretches his hand out, trying to figure out if he wants to find something to play underneath what Brendon's got going on. "I don't lie about music."

Brendon smirks at him. "What do you lie about?"

He doesn't answer but he does start a bass beat. A simple one, at first, but Brendon pushes him, switches to a minor chord that doesn't work with what he's got going on. He pushes back, following Brendon but speeding up, and Brendon grins, stepping closer.

"Yeah, yeah," Brendon gets into it, his whole body bopping along. "That's better, there, baby."

He doesn't want to be charmed but he is. He doesn't bop, he's already decided he wants to be the bass player that stands braced and rocks out, maybe wanders around from time to time, but he's charmed enough by Brendon's enthusiasm that he experiments with the sound and takes a few steps closer.

Brendon shouts along with what they're playing, never adds lyrics but adds yips and cheers, and sidles into Spencer's space. Before he knows it they're playing knuckle-to-knuckle, Brendon rising up onto his toes and sinking back on his heels, forcing Spencer to rock with him. He sees it when Brendon goes to far, when Brendon starts to fall, but Brendon catches himself, keeps playing even as he lands on his knees in front of Spencer.

He stares down at Brendon. Brendon keeps playing, his mouth open wide as he looks up at Spencer, and Spencer's never had this before, definitely not with Ryan, the moment of understanding how sexy this is, how sexy it could be. They're staring at each other and they're playing nonsense and he realizes he's sweating, his hairline soaked. Brendon is heaving in huge gulps of air, watching Spencer's fingers and it's too much.

He turns, stopping, to reach for his water bottle. Brendon stops as soon as he does. When Spencer turns back around Brendon has the guitar back against the amp, almost as if he never touched it.

"I'm going to," Brendon points at the door. "Good rehearsal, thanks."

"Brendon." He takes off his guitar. "Music, for you, it's." Brendon's hovering by the door, waiting for him to finish. He waves a hand, groping for an explanation.

"Music's my religion," Brendon says it sarcastically, bitingly, but he repeats it without the anger and it's true, Spencer can see it.

-

When Ryan started the band, it was him and a guitar. It was because he had a guitar. Spencer would have to learn to play some kind of instrument if they were to continue as best friends. He didn't resent Ryan for that, and besides, it's not like Spencer had anything to do with his teen years.

They talked about it a long time, during the long hours in Spencer's room, trying to beat Goldeneye.

"I wanna play drums," Spencer told him.

"You can't play drums." Ryan had said, It's up to you, Spence, you decide. Except then he shot down every one of Spencer's choices. Clearly Ryan had something else in mind. It didn't surprise Spencer that Ryan had already created the band in his head. He only had to wait for Ryan to spit it out. "You can't play drums because The White Stripes already exist."

Spencer shoved him off balance until Ryan dropped his controller. "I think you just called me a girl."

They decided on bass. Spencer says they decided, but he trusts Ryan's vision.

"Bass'll be great, Spence." Ryan helped him tune it up. "You'll be there to back me up."

Spencer backed him up through their first bands, their first break-ups, their first songs until they found Brendon. That was when Spencer realised his true role in the band wasn't timekeeper, but peacemaker.

"Your friend's a real dick," Brendon tells him. Spencer knows.

They fight over a lot of stupid things. Ryan wants to stand on the right, Brent wants to go home, Spencer hates his guitar strap. Brendon just wants the song to sound good. He sits on the Hiwatt Spencer and his dad found at the dump.

"I don't want to look like a fool."

"Ryan won't let that happen," Spencer says. Ryan's ideas may sound out there, but he'd never make any of them look like fools. Spencer believes that.

Brendon is still new. They're still feeling their way around each other and towards something like a band. They have a name, they have some songs, they have a place where they can be. It's more than Spencer ever expected. And Brendon fits. Even if he doesn't know it yet.

"You want to play with me a while?" Brent and Ryan are long gone. Brendon had offered to help Spencer clean up, and then Spencer was driving him home. "No Panic songs. We can just jam."

Nodding, smiling, Brendon reaches for his guitar. He carries his electric back and forth--Brendon also plays at school--but he has an acoustic that he keeps here in their practice space. Not that he gets to play it often. That's the one he chooses now.

Spencer pulls Brent's drum stool out from behind the kit, and Brendon hops back up on the amp, getting the guitar comfortable in his lap. He waits, waits, until Spencer realises he has to be the one to start. The bass sets the tone.

They play a steady straight rhythm of Spencer's long basslines and Brendon weaving in and around. He hates to say it, even in his own head, but it's the most fun Spencer's had here in a long time. It's been deep in music-is-work mode for months now, and Spencer gets it. He knows what they have to do if they're going to succeed.

But sometimes he'd like to take some time to look up from his strings and watch Brendon nodding and grinning and loving every note.

"You're really the one keeping the beat, have you ever noticed that?"

Brendon shakes his head. "Are you kidding? The bass keeps the beat." He points his chin at Spencer.

"Yeah," Spencer agrees. "Me and Brent, we keep the beat of the song, but, Brendon." This isn't what he expected would happen tonight. It's just another rehearsal, nothing special. They didn't even write a new song. Ryan's been stuck on one line of one chorus for days. Spencer and Brendon spend most of their time away from here, away from the band. Brendon told him once that he was saving up all the time he could being a person before he became a rock star.

"Brendon, you're the one who keeps the beat of this band."

Ryan will argue, but so will Spencer, because he may have the music and the words and the vision, but Ryan can't make it come to life without Brendon. Spencer can't find the beat without the beat he hears in Brendon's chest, every time he steps into that practice space. Brendon still can't believe he's here.

Reaching across both their guitars, Spencer grabs his shoulder. He cups his hand around Brendon's neck, not pushing him away, not pulling him in, but holding him steady so he can't spin away.

"You're the one who's going to get us there," Spencer says, and he'll say it again, until Brendon opens his eyes, opens his ears, and believes what Spencer has to say.

-

He offers to drive Brendon home.

Brendon agrees readily but smooths down his shirt nervously four or five times as they're heading out to the car. "Relax," he spins his keys around his fingers. "I'm not going to, like, eat you, I'm just trying to give you a ride home."

Brendon normally drives his mom's purple monstrosity or bikes up. A few times he's walked up, appearing out of nowhere.

Spencer's curious. Ryan's told him to leave it, not to ask and not to push, but can it really be called pushing when he's just by trying to be nice to Brendon? He thinks not.

"You want to stop anywhere?" he asks just to have something to say. Brendon seems to think about it, pauses with his seatbelt gripped tightly in his hands.

"Yeah." Brendon nods with his request, slides his hands up and down the seatbelt. Spencer waits for Brendon to tell him where they should go.

"OK, cool, well," he sneaks a glance over at Brendon. "You know, just tell me where you want us to go."

"I, uh," Brendon reaches forward to futz with the radio. Spencer bats his hand away, turns up the CD they're already listening to with a pointed glance.

Brendon doesn't follow that up with anything so Spencer just drives them to Starbucks. Their options are really food, drinks or shopping and they're too young for the good drinks and too broke for the good shopping.

"Sweet," Brendon hops out, pulls his hoodie off. It's hot, Spencer has no clue why he was wearing a hoodie in the first place.

"My treat," he offers while they're in line. Brendon smiles at him but doesn't say anything. Spencer throws in a request for a cupcake.

He and Brendon take over a small table in the corner. "You're being weirdly quiet tonight," he observes, not looking at Brendon. They've all gotten used to Brendon being full of energy and excitement, it's weird to see him have an off day.

Brendon shrugs, swirling his drink around in the cup. "Some days, that's how I roll." He swirls too hard and spills, lukewarm mocha spilling out over the table, Spencer's hand, dripping down onto Brendon's pants. "Fuck."

Brendon jumps up and is back at the table with napkins, dabbing at Spencer's hand before he's touched his own jeans. "Brendon, stop, worry about yourself." Spencer's halfway to Brendon's thigh, a handful of napkins clenched in his hand, when he pauses, looks up at Brendon's face. Brendon is beet red, blushing, but he grabs Spencer's hand, presses it and the napkins together onto the spill.

As soon as it's cleaned up Spencer jumps up, spinning his keys around his fingers. "Should we go?" Brendon nods quickly, gulps the last of his drink as they head to the door.

There's a moment in the doorway. Brent and his girlfriend pass them by, holding hands, Brent's cheeks red and his smile bashful. Spencer stops to chat but Brendon gives an awkward wave and continues to the car. He doesn't bother trying to explain Brendon, Brent's known him longer than Spencer has. Brent waves him on after he peers around to make sure Brendon's still there one too many times.

Spencer sparks an actual discussion on the drive to Brendon's house, talking about their favorite sci-fi movies. They sit in the car outside Brendon's house long enough Spencer turns the engine off, his mom's voice in his head telling him not to waste gas. They have something to talk about now, so they do, or Spencer nudges with more questions every time Brendon slows down recounting anecdotes from his speech and debate class. When the floodlights outside the garage flick on Brendon jumps, looking guiltily toward the house.

"We should do this again some time," Spencer says as Brendon opens the car door. Brendon pulls it closed again, turning to look at him.

"Yeah?" Brendon pushes his glasses up his nose.

Spencer fidgets with the sleeve of his hoodie, pulling it down over his thumbs. "Yeah."

"I'd like that." Brendon leans over the seats. He hugs Spencer quickly, as if Spencer might push him away. Before Brendon can pull away completely he gets one arm wrapped around him, pulls him back in and squeezes him in tight. Brendon always looks like he needs a hug. If he's taking one without asking, Spencer's going to make it good.

Brendon squeezes back, a quick press and release, and Spencer lets him go when he's done. "Cool, so," Brendon smiles as he opens the car door again.

"See you tomorrow," he calls out as the door's closing. Brendon gives him a thumbs up. Spencer waits until he's inside before he starts the car.

He's home when he gets Brent's text. how was yr date?. He fumbles his phone, types out three different replies, deletes all three, and is about to just turn the phone off when he gets a new text.

thx :), from Brendon. He flips his phone a few times, wishing he had a drum stick handy, as he figures out his reply to Brent.

fuk u awesome

-

"Is this a date?" Brendon pulls the straw out of his mouth long enough to point it at Spencer, along with his question.

"No." It was just Starbucks. They did Starbucks all the time, especially when Spencer drove Brendon home. He didn't know much yet, but he knew Brendon didn't like to be home. Starbucks was great because they let you sit in their chairs for hours. By the time Brendon finally gave in and decided they had to go, his straw would be chewed all to hell, tied in knots, and Spencer's stomach, too.

They're not dates because they don't call them dates. That's Brent, far too wrapped up in the way things are supposed to be. He likes to tease because he thinks it bothers them. It doesn't bother Spencer, and when he sees Brendon turning inside himself, that's when Spencer takes him out.

"Do you want it to be a date?" Spencer tears an end off the chocolate croissant between them. Sometimes they get a cupcake. They always get something to share.

"If this was a date," Brendon says. He leans back in his seat. "I could do this."

Nothing happens, then Spencer feels it. Under the table, it's Brendon's foot pressing against Spencer, and then he wraps their ankles together. It's a bit cheesy, but Spencer's not saying anything. He loves the way it makes Brendon smile.

"You could do that. I don't mind."

That makes Brendon bold--bolder. He scoots the chair closer to the table so their knees bump. Spencer jumps when they knock together. "Hey!"

"Sorry." Brendon moves back. Their ankles unwind.

"Hey," Spencer says again, quiet. "Not so hard next time."

"Right. Yeah." Nervous, Brendon drops his straw and has trouble popping off the plastic lid to get at the last of his iced cappucino. Spencer pushes the croissant to his side of the table, a kind of consolation. Brendon looks up beneath his eyelashes. "Sorry."

Spencer shakes his head. "We can go. Bring it with you."

It's late, but it's summer. Still light out, all kinds of lights, actually, making the sky look red and blue and green. And it's hot. That's why they went for the iced coffee. (Jon told Spencer once what Starbucks puts in these drinks, and it doesn't make him feel good about it, but fuck, it's hot in Vegas in June.)

"Let's just drive," Brendon says, holding the door open with his shoulder, making himself small for Spencer to walk by.

"You wanna cruise the Strip?" Spencer laughs. He's driving his mom's mini-van tonight. It's not exactly the height of cool.

Brendon takes a moment to look embarrassed, but his cheeks are puffed up with the last of the croissant, and his tongue licking out to get at the smear of chocolate on his upper lip. So he shrugs and says, "I've never been."

"Never been what? Normal?"

Brendon waits until Spencer unlocks his door to retort, "Ha, ha. I've never been to the Strip."

"Wait." He stops with his hand on the key in the ignition. "Never."

Brendon nods.

"This will be awesome."

Mostly, it's lights and sound. Spencer tends to forget how overwhelming Vegas can be. From his bedroom window, Spencer sees Vegas diluted. Brendon, in the passenger seat with the windows rolled down, gets Vegas concentrate. Unfiltered and hooked straight to his vein.

He loves it. Spencer tries to watch his face and the road at the same time, and Brendon never blinks. He takes it all in. He takes it all in without speaking, without the teasing jibes Ryan and Spencer always trade when they come into town, without judgement.

Spencer knows then that they have the right guy for the job of lead singer. He doesn't know which pieces Brendon will steal or where they'll end up, but he's building their show as Spencer drives.

"I knew it was there," Brendon says, finally, turning his head for one last look. "I knew what it looked like, but." He leans back into the headrest. "I didn't know it would feel like that."

There's nothing Spencer can say that wouldn't sound stupid, so he just drives. He lets Brendon be quiet--he enjoys Brendon quiet. It's a lot to take in. It's like the band is finally coming together for Brendon in his head.

Spencer parks around the corner from Brendon's house. He's just unbuckling to turn and say goodbye, and Brendon's doing the same thing at the same time, and they meet in the middle, over the emergency brake. They kiss, because you have to when you find yourself in that position. Your lips want it more than you, maybe. Spencer doesn't care who knows anymore. He wants it too.

Brendon presses him back against the door, not going for anything more than a kiss, but it's a really good kiss. It tastes like chocolate and lights them both up from within.

-

"I am so fucking sick of this place," Ryan kicks at the broken cement on the sidewalk. He's just going to wreck his shoes but Spencer can't tell him that.

"Yeah," he leans back against the wall of the house. He's sick of Ryan but he can't say that. He's sick of Ryan, sick of pizza, sick of Brendon, sick of recording, and sick of Brent.

"Aren't you sick of this place?" Ryan glares at him.

"Ryan, what do you want me to say?" he glares back. "Of course I'm fucking sick of this place, we're living like prisoners and you're making the music shit up as we go."

"I want you to be supportive!" Ryan waves a fist at him and it strikes him as hilarious. He has the mental overlay of an ancient Italian woman shaking her fist in despair, clearly from some movie or another, and Ryan fucking Ross filling the role of tiny grandma makes him laugh.

Of course it's the wrong thing to do, Ryan's face clouding over. "Fine, then," he spits, stomping in the other direction. There's nothing in the other direction, nothing they want or need.

"Ryan, come back," he calls, still laughing. Ryan waves him off. "You have to admit this is fucking funny, OK?" Ryan stops, his shoulders still tense. "This isn't you and this isn't me. We'll be done in two weeks, right?" They have to be done in two weeks. "And then this'll all just become a story about recording our first record." Ryan's walking back toward him, but reluctantly, slowly. "It'll be the stuff of legend."

"Ha," Ryan kicks at his shoes. He shoves away from the wall, move his feet out of Ryan's range.

"Seriously, just come back inside and talk to Brendon like a normal person. It'll be good for both of you."

Ryan tips his head. That's the best he'll get. He feels tired. That's the way he puts it on the phone to his mom but he feels scraped-out, exhausted, too little Spencer and too much not-Spencer. He thought it would be him and Ryan, and Brendon and Brent, really working together on something, and some days it's that, but mostly Ryan and Matt and sometimes Brendon figuring shit out on guitars or hidden behind a sea of dials and slides.

He knows he'll have his chance to track, he's practiced his drum parts, listened to the synth pieces Matt's queued up to substitute. He can do this, he knows he can, but he can't do it if Ryan and Brendon don't make it through the process whole. Because, seriously, what would be the point?

Ryan's graceless, with Brendon, but they play video games for long enough that it feels like them again, instead of zombie-them. He lets Brent win when it's their turn to go one-on-one. Brent's victory lap is worth it, especially when Brendon tries unsuccessfully to trip him.

"We'd make kick ass zombies," he announces, just after the next round of pizza arrives. At least he got his way on the boutique place. If he's going to eat pizza like it's going out of style he wants to try jalapeño and pineapple at least once.

"What type of zombies?" Brendon pushes his glasses up his nose with his middle finger. Spencer flicks him off in return and it's only Brendon's shocked face that clues him. Brendon must do it unintentionally.

"Are there, like, different strains of zombie?" Ryan stares thoughtfully at his pizza. He always picks at the toppings, eating them with his fingers before he finishes the slice. Spencer can't watch. "Different families?"

The debate rages. He doesn't care, he tunes it out. It's nice, until they finish the pizza and Ryan's eyes stray to the Fender against the wall.

Spencer's done his job here, he decides. He has nothing official he needs to do today and he's made everyone play nice as long as he can. "I'm going to nap," he says it authoritatively, unquestionably. Brent looks at him like he's crazy but Ryan and Brendon both nod.

"We won't burn the house down," Brendon salutes him, smirking. Spencer flicks him off. This time, Brendon returns the gesture.

He doesn't really need to nap but he plugs his ipod in and air-drums for a while. It's nothing like real drumming, it's an exercise in rock badassery. Someday he wants to look good as he does this.

"So, thanks," Brendon pops his head in the door and Spencer stops. Brendon smiles at him, something more than a quick flash of teeth but less than a grin. He crosses his arms, self-conscious.

"I don't know what you're talking about." He sits back on his bed, mentally releasing his foothold on the kick-drum.

"You know what I'm talking about," Brendon walks into the room, sits next to him. He doesn't respond. "C'mon, I thought you were going to nap." Brendon squirms around behind him, pulls him down to lay beside him.

"I just wanted to be alone," he explains. Brendon throws a leg over his knees, keeping him reclining.

"Yeah, well, let me feel like I'm doing something for you," Brendon smiles at him again, that same flash of humor and charm. "Nap with me."

-

Spencer didn't think he'd be the one to freak out but, well, he's the one freaking out, he's not going to deny it. He's also not going to talk to Brendon about it and he can tell himself it's because Brendon's asleep next to him, curled up facing Spencer when Spencer would curl up with his back facing in were the positions reversed and he really can't believe he's the one freaking out, not Brendon. He decides to go and call Ryan.

He gets up in increments, trying not to wake Brendon, and walks slowly to the bathroom, collecting his clothes by touch. It's dark but his vision has adjusted just enough he can make it without hurting himself. He closes the door and flicks the light on, then drops his phone on the counter to grab a towel and stuff it under the door, blocking as much of the light as possible.

He folds the seat down on the toilet and sits there but feels stupid, hates that he can see himself in the mirror. Instead he swishes open the curtain to the tub. They haven't used it, they'd showered at the venue, there's only a mess of toiletries. He curls up the floor mat into an impromptu pillow and plonks down, stretching his toes out as if he's about to run the water, and closing the curtain again.

He's aware this could be called hiding. He almost wishes he'd turned the light back off.

He opens his phone and there are a few texts waiting, from his sisters. He fires off responses, then goes looking for anyone else he hasn't responded to. Sometimes he forgets. He sends something innocuous to Ryan last, before he switches over to checking his email. If Ryan's awake he'll respond. If he's not Spencer will continue freaking out alone in a bathtub somewhere in Indiana.

Tomorrow's a full travel day. He doesn't even know why they're at a hotel tonight if they're just going to drive all day tomorrow, too many people in too small a van. Someone's being nice, somewhere on the chain, possibly even Pete, with his gigantic and obvious boycrush on their entire band. He wishes he could go back and tell that person, even Pete, to be mean, not to give them an extra night in a hotel, because that's what got him into this mess. The promise of a bed, soft and warm and nothing like dozing in a half-reclining position in a van, and it made sense to agree to Brendon's proposal that they make out, that they practice with each other.

"I am not this type of stupid." He leans back against the towel, closing his eyes so he doesn't have to look at the ceiling. And he's not this type of stupid. He knew exactly what they were doing. If practicing was an excuse in Brendon's head it wasn't in his. And they'd gone way past that, anyway. He shivers at the memory of Brendon's mouth closing around the head of his dick, softly and gently, like he wasn't sure it'd take. It had been really hot, way hotter than Spencer had expected. He thought he'd only be able to see his dorky lead singer.

"Spence?" Brendon knocks softly on the door. "I gotta pee."

He could get up and out of the bathtub, run the tap in the sink as if he were finishing up, and pretend nothing's wrong. Or he could be fucking honest. "C'mon in."

Brendon doesn't say anything. He pisses two feet from Spencer's head. It sounds loud and damning, to him. That's the dick he touched, the dick he hadn't needed to mouth since Brendon had come, spraying up his forearm, shortly after he'd started experimenting with the rhythm of it.

Brendon takes a long time washing his hands. He flicks the curtain back. Brendon's naked, standing on one foot and scratching his calf with the other. "Bren," he opens the curtain further.

"Yeah?" Brendon meets his eyes in the mirror.

"That wasn't practice."

Brendon turns off the tap, turns around, dries his hands and sits on the toilet, closed again. He stares at himself in the mirror, exactly how Spencer couldn't. "I know." Brendon's back is ramrod straight, his knees pressed together. Spencer realizes he knows Brendon's naked body even though this is the first time Brendon's purposefully shared it with him.

"Brendon," he turns his body in the tub, not just his head. He turns and he reaches, tapping Brendon's knee. "Brendon." Brendon turns to look at him. His eyes are dark, nearly black, even with the harsh fluorescent lights. He fumbles for Brendon's hand. He tugs until Brendon gets up off the seat, switches to sitting on the edge of the bathtub. Spencer has to tilt his head up to see Brendon, further than Brendon normally has to tilt his head up to see Spencer. "Make out with me." He swallows. "Have sex with me."

-

So, that happened, is what Brendon tells himself. It happened and then he'd thought maybe Spencer wished it hadn't but then Spencer had been so thoroughly Spencer and had confirmed it had happened and then maybe it had happened again but it was different and better.

Actually, every time has been better. He's maybe in awe. He didn't think it could get better every time. It's not possible, right? They have to plateau sometime. He doesn't have anyone to ask outside of the band which means he isn't asking, ever, but his instinct tells him he's either lucky or special. He thinks he's special. He knows he's lucky.

Pete keeps hinting they won't be in a van for much longer. Brendon keeps telling Spencer he's going to write a list of things they're going to do when they have more space, more time, more anything. Spencer mostly ignores him. Or pretends to ignore him, he's pretty sure he's unignorable.

Brendon doesn't care, he knows Spencer pays attention when it counts. And when Brendon demands his attention, which isn't always the important times, but instead mostly when Brendon thinks Spencer needs the distraction. Or when Brendon's bored, or thinks Spencer is bored. So, basically, all the time when they're not onstage.

"Spence," he turns just his head, swiveling against the back of the couch to look for Spencer across the room. Brendon's watching TV and eating Fruit by the Foot, his second favorite way to spend time in a green room.

"No," Spencer doesn't look up from his laptop. Brendon can't see what he's working on, even when he bends and reaches.

"Why you gotta be like that, baby?" he spreads his arms wide, trying to project a hurt look. He lets the candy hang off his lip, exaggerating his pout. Spencer still doesn't look up. Brendon almost wishes he were the guy that'd keep his arms out until Spencer pays attention but he's not. Arms get heavy and Spencer's doing something on the internet.

"Brent?" he pushes himself to look over the back of the couch instead, but Brent's gone. Ryan's never around anymore, always off, watching Pete with curious eyes. "Spencer!" he tries again. They have their dressing room to themselves, what are they doing on opposite sides of the room?

"What?" Spencer finally looks up, with a distracted air.

"Did you know we're alone?" he scrunches down further on the couch, spreading his legs. Spencer brushes his hair out of his eyes with one hand. His gaze flicks to the open doorway then his wrist flicks down to his waist, away from his hair. Brendon doesn't miss the part where Spencer's gaze flicks over him, too. He opens his legs further.

Spencer closes his laptop and stands. Brendon starts to sit up, to get up to join him, but Spencer points one stern finger at him. "Stay."

He sits back where he was and watches Spencer cross the room. Spencer's keys are still attached to his hip. He jangles with each step. Brendon starts humming Tambourine Man, watching the twitch of Spencer's hips. Sometimes he thinks Spencer twitches more just for him.

The door doesn't have a lock on it but Spencer stuffs a chair under the handle. They know from experience that type of thing only holds if they're lucky but it'll stop people for just long enough they can figure something out.

"Play a song for me," he warbles out overdramatically when Spencer's on his way back. Spencer doesn't stop, doesn't acknowledge, bulldozes into the space between his knees.

"We don't have a lot of time, why are your pants still on?" but Spencer doesn't move to remove his own clothes.

Brendon hooks both thumbs behind his belt buckle and sings back at Spencer. "I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to," he warbles out, doing his best Dylan impression.

Spencer's staring at him slit-eyed, hands on his hips. "Would you stop that, that's creepy."

"You know folk music gets you in the mood," he jerks his chin up, biting his lip. Sexy.

Spencer seems to agree. He leans in, puts his hands on the back of the sofa, boxing Brendon in. "You get me in the mood," Spencer says it teasingly but his tongue licks into Brendon's mouth and makes it a promise, makes it true.

They can't have long but they take their time kissing. Brendon loves it when he gets to do that, when Spencer treats him, treats this, like it doesn't matter if someone walks in. It does matter, Brendon doesn't want people walking in, but when Spencer treats it like it's something else he can think about it as something else, too.

"You are so much more trouble than you're worth," Spencer mutters between kisses. Brendon decides to prove him wrong with a blowjob. He is certainly worth every bit of trouble he gets in to.

-

When it's just the two of them, when Brent's missing and Ryan's off in his own world, Brendon plays folk songs on his acoustic. Spencer keeps time with a tambourine and doesn't even complain. He may even enjoy it.

"No Mr. Tambourine Man, OK?"

"I guess so." He picks out the scale, before strumming something simple, not really feeling like tuning the thing, but not wanting it to sound awful. It's just the two of them in Spencer's bedroom alone, but Brendon doesn't want to sound awful.

Taking a step back in time and slightly to the left, Brendon decides This Land is Your Land. It's easy enough, but he can pick it to sound complicated and impressive. He hums along, and Spencer does, too. Spencer doesn't like to sing, Brendon's realised.

"Ryan's never gonna let me play that on stage," he says and goes around once more on the guitar.

Spencer shakes his head. He sets the tambourine in his lap. "Ryan only thinks he knows what he wants." He lays back on the bed, and Brendon can see skin where his shirt rides up and his pants ride down. "Tomorrow, it'll be something brand new."

The strings keep humming after the song is done. Brendon stops them with a hollow thump of his guitar. It's old and scratched, coated thick with dust when Brendon found it in his attic. Mom always said he was a natural on piano, but Brendon loves that guitar.

He sets it on the floor, bending over almost until he falls because he doesn't want to drop it. But he doesn't want to get off the bed either. It's not late, but getting dark, and they finished dinner and the dishes, so Mrs. Smith won't be calling them downstairs for anything soon. There's only one light on in the room, a reading lamp clipped to Spencer's headboard. It's turned away, and everything has a dusky glow.

Spencer's skin has a dusky glow, and Brendon has to touch.

He giggles when Brendon touches him. Brendon could be nice and call it something else, but that was a giggle. "You giggle, Spencer Smith," he says and tickles more deliberately before Spencer grabs his wrist to stop him.

They roll back and forth on the bed, tickling, wrestling. It's not making out yet. It has to be an accident. They never mean to start kissing--it just happens. Spencer lands on top, their legs sliding together, and when Brendon's fingers clench on Spencer's hip, it makes his knee jerk up into Brendon's crotch. A moment of pain, but it's the touch too far that leads to the kiss.

Spencer smiles right before their lips meet. It's always an accident, and the first time, Brendon played it off like practice. Why don't we be each other's first kiss, he had said, and Spencer had smiled like that then, too. So they were each other's first kiss.

Then Spencer had suggested a little bit more. Just hands. Hands were good. They did it in Spencer's mom's car, and the embarrassment nearly burned Brendon's face off. It was easier after that, on Spencer's bed, in the practice space after the others were gone.

They've only just moved on to mouths. Brendon finds he likes that a lot, which pretty much decides things. He likes sucking cock. There's no going back to straight after this. There's no going back to his family and what they want him to be. Maybe the music would have been fine, but Brendon wants this, too.

On top, Spencer works at Brendon's zipper. He's doing most of the work right now, Brendon's happy to follow his lips and rub his back. Spencer slides down the bed. He hasn't done this too many times yet. Brendon's excited to see how it'll go.

He runs his fingers through Spencer's hair, not leading, just letting him know Brendon's there. Brendon wants this, and he could say that out loud, but he doesn't quite trust his voice at the moment. Spencer kisses his belly, licks all around his belly button, and Brendon might shout out too loud. As it is, he wants to get up and put on some music so the Smiths don't get too curious.

Spencer is careful when he pulls Brendon's dick out of his underwear. Still too risky to get all the way naked, like this they can quick cover what they're doing. Brendon even grabs hold of the pillow under his head, easy access, just in case. It's kind of hot, too, just Brendon's dick exposed to the air, cool when Spencer licks him.

For all that they're careful, when it finally happens, it's fast. Spencer still grimaces at the taste, and Brendon has no willpower. It's hard enough waiting to get this far. Brendon's happy just to kiss and touch and lay next to Spencer on his bed. To get this feels like enough sometimes.

-

"Who got you liquor?" Spencer doesn't sound impressed. Brendon thinks he should be impressed, especially with Brendon. He's barely legal to vote but he orchestrated a whole evening in for the two of them, an evening on the bus with liquid refreshment and no Ryan, practically a feat.

Spencer still has some kind of loyalty to Ryan and Ryan's fucking belief that alcohol is evil or something. Brendon knows he has trauma or whatever but if eighteen years of Mormon indoctrination don't get him to treat his body like a temple than Ryan Ross and his issues are just screwed.

"Jon Walker," Brendon informs Spencer when Spencer won't let up. "He liberated it from the Academy's bus at my request." Spencer hmms and examines the bottle. Tequila. Jose, nothing too fancy, Brendon doesn't think and doesn't know. It's clear instead of the yellowy piss color Brendon associates with tequila after his three shots with Bill. Shots in clear glasses, the third he tried to balance on his nose.

"It's good, here," he grabs the bottle and takes a swig. It's terrible and it burns and his stomach flips but he smiles at Spencer. Spencer gazes impassively back.

"If we're going to do shots I hear we at least need lime," Spencer says it with the authority Brendon associates with PR calls.

He smiles as he gets up. He's pretty sure Spencer's never done a shot in his life, nonetheless a shot of tequila. But he does have limes. He demonstrates for Spencer, showing him the lime before he starts juggling it.

When he drops it Spencer picks it up off the floor. Instead of handing it to him Spencer gets up, keeping it out of his reach. "I'll cut it." Spencer opens one of the cupboards. "Do we even have shot glasses?"

They don't, but there are Dixie cups in the bathroom.

Brendon's a little sad at how it all looks, laid out on the bus's kitchen table. It's not the wild night with Spencer he'd had tucked away at the back of his head. It's salt packets from a canteen somewhere, a lime cut with a plastic knife and tequila in little disposable cups. Pathetic.

But he has done a shot before. He's committed to teaching Spencer, even with piss poor supplies.

"Here," he grabs Spencer's wrist. "Lick," he licks Spencer's wrist and offers Spencer his own. Spencer's tongue doesn't linger but Brendon shivers. He lines their wrists up and sprinkles the salt over them, then plops a wedge of lime in Spencer's palm. "Ready?" He knows Brendon's seen The Cutting Edge, he doesn't need to explain the process.

Spencer waits until he's done, watching him with narrowed eyes, before he starts his own shot. Brendon exaggerates his expression after the burn sets in. He can play the goofball here and know Spencer knows it's a game.

Spencer looks thoughtful as he bites into the lime. "That's not so bad." Brendon laughs as Spencer reaches for the bottle.

"I've created a monster!" he jokes as Spencer pours them another round. They're not huge shots, Brendon definitely thinks they can keep going.

Spencer licks his own wrist, then Brendon's, sprinkling the salt on with brisk efficiency. Brendon's laugh dies in his throat when Spencer licks Brendon's wrist to start his shot.

"That's the advanced class," he tells Spencer. Spencer lifts his wrist to Brendon's mouth. Brendon does his duty.

"I think I see why people like tequila," Spencer doesn't let go of his hand as he pours another shot, just in his cup, and sits down on the couch.

"Spence?" he questions as Spencer pulls him down with him, without doing the shot. Spencer grins loosely at him and he wonders if Spencer is drunk already. "That was fast," he grins and starts to sit next to Spencer but Spencer grabs his knee, directs his movements. "Oh, it's like that is it?" he laughs as he swings a leg over and settles his ass down on Spencer's knees. Spencer pulls him closer.

"I've heard there's this thing called a body shot," Spencer tugs Brendon's shirt up until Brendon just shrugs out of it.

"I'm not sure," he starts but Spencer licks his nipple then tips the shot back. Brendon swallows as Spencer's throat works. "I," he gets out before Spencer's pulling him in for a kiss, half the shot still on his tongue. "Now that's what I'm talking about," he says when he pulls back. Spencer smirks up at him, proud and victorious.

"Thanks for giving me my first shot," Spencer mutters darkly, pulling Brendon closer. He lets himself get pulled, get lost in Spencer's mouth.

"Thanks for seeing the potential," he shivers when both of Spencer's broad hands try to circle his waist. "This is the opposite of pathetic." He leans back, trusting Spencer's grip to keep him from falling. He grabs the bottle and takes something closer to a sip than a swig then leans in to kiss Spencer with the tequila still warming his mouth.

-

By the time they stumble into bed, Spencer's head is pounding. He shouldn't have done that last shot. He's smart enough to know that, but the hollow of Brendon's collarbone just looked so inviting. It tasted so good, too.

All he tastes is pillow, the next morning.

"Learn your lesson?" a voice says, too loud. The voice sounds very far away and very close at the same time. It's Ryan. Spencer probably knew that even when he was sleeping. "Speeeencer," he drones, right in Spencer's ear.

"Shut the fuck up."

The mattress moves when Ryan does. Spencer rolls closer to the wall and shoves his face back in the pillow.

"By the way?" Ryan says. Spencer doesn't look. "Brendon is missing."

So Spencer has to get up, get out of bed, and make his way, blurry, to the front of the bus. Everyone else is already there. Brent's eating cereal, and Zack's on his phone. Ryan has a stupid grin on his face, like he knows something they don't.

"What did you do, Smith?" Zack points his phone, accusing. But it's not Spencer's fault. Brendon's the one who got the booze. Really, they need to blame Jon Walker. Where's he hiding this morning?

"It wasn't me!" he says. He throws up his hands. "Did you check The Academy's bus? He's all buddy-buddy with them now."

Brent walks past to put his bowl in the sink. He licks his spoon and narrows his eyes at Spencer. "You look like crap."

"Yeah, thanks," and Spencer reaches out to punch his arm.

Zack is making more phone calls, but they have to go out looking. Ryan won't let Spencer out of his sight, so he has to get dressed in his bunk, with the curtain pulled shut. Ryan sits hunched on Brent's bunk across the aisle.

"What did you guys do last night?" He voice sounds pinched. Spencer feels like crap now. He wants to tell Ryan about it, because he wants to tell Ryan about nearly everything he does. It's how he knows anything really happened.

"Last night." Spencer's having some trouble with his zipper. "Can I just say I don't remember much about last night?"

"You can, but I won't believe you." When Spencer finally rolls out of the bunk, finally dressed, Ryan says, "This isn't like you, Spence."

"Well, how am I supposed to know? I haven't figured me out yet." He reaches up, asking for a hand off the floor. "I'm sure you know exactly where you'll be next year."

Bumping one sharp shoulder against Spencer, Ryan says, "At least I know I'll be in this band, with you guys."

"Yeah," Spencer laughs. "If we can find Brendon."

With Zack working his connections, Spencer, Ryan, and Brent trudge over to The Academy's bus. Brent pounds on the door, while Ryan stands stock-still, arms crossed over his chest. Spencer can't feel below his knees, and his head is beating in time to Brent's rhythm.

It's William who finally answers the door, swinging out, and with a maniacal grin. "Hello, boys."

"Did you steal our singer, Beckett?" Ryan sounds angry for real, but Spencer can't be sure that it's not him. They haven't been on tour very long. Even so, Ryan and William have been locked in some kind of epic stand-off. Brendon says it's because Jon likes them more than the band he came with. It's not true--Jon likes everyone.

"If you've lost one of your gang, Ross, he's not here. Check the playground across the street," he tells them. When the door is shut, they can still hear laughter inside.

"They suck," Brent says, and everyone agrees.

In all, Brendon's barely gone an hour. He and Jon went looking for doughnuts, and neither had their cellphones or watches or a decent sense of direction. Hungover and still craving sugar, they stumbled back onto the Panic bus sometime before Spencer, Ryan, and Brent returned from their search.

"You missed the big lecture," Brendon tells him, later, when Spencer crawls into the bunk. They still got the angry Zack reminder that no one's allowed to go anywhere or do anything ever.

"And you missed all the excitement." The best way they fit in the bunks is like this, Spencer's chest to Brendon's back, and Spencer holds them tight together. Brendon's not going anywhere--he's the one against the wall, but Spencer wants to be sure today. His head is clear now. "How you feeling?"

Brendon hums, grabbing Spencer's hand and pressing it against his forehead. "Headache."

"Yeah. Here's a tip: Ryan glaring at you disapprovingly doesn't help."

"Oh," Brendon groans. "Don't make me laugh."

The only thing Spencer wants right now is a nap. It seems like Brendon agrees, but it feels like something more. He's wriggling, not just normal, trying-to-get-comfortable wriggling, but ass-on-crotch wriggling. "Cut it out," he says and presses Brendon forward onto the mattress. It has the exact opposite effect. "Are you still drunk?" Spencer asks.

"I have to be drunk to want you to fuck me?"

Spencer kisses him instead.

-

Spencer's in the bathtub. "You want me to get in?"

He considers it while Brendon sits quietly. Midnight in a hotel bathroom in Indiana, and naked to boot, it's not where Brendon expected to be. Then, he didn't expect this either, Spencer watching him, seeing him naked, and not rolling his eyes, and telling Brendon to put some clothes on. Those are the old days now. Things are different.

"Let's just go to bed," Spencer says, finally. He holds out a hand, and Brendon helps him up. They stand and they kiss with the tub between them until Spencer steps up and over. He leans into Brendon until Brendon has to wrap his arms around and hold him up. It's not quite fair Spencer being that much taller than him and all.

"I'm not carrying you." Brendon is tired, too. Besides, Spencer is the one hiding in the bathtub.

"Fine. But don't expect me to blow you."

They crawl back into bed, underneath the hotel's monogrammed blanket that Spencer will probably steal before they leave in the morning. There's a stack of them on the bus. He doesn't think anyone has noticed.

Brendon thinks about turning on the TV. Honestly, he's not particularly up for sex right now. But he doesn't feel ready for sleep either. Maybe they should talk.

"Should we talk?" he asks.

Spencer wrinkles his nose. "We don't have to. Ryan will want to talk all about it tomorrow. That'll be enough for me for the rest of the tour."

"Hmm." Brendon tucks into Spencer's side. Spencer is so warm, they don't even need the blanket. "Why are we telling Ryan?"

"We don't have to. He's freaky like that."

"I've noticed." Ryan can do it with Brendon, too, but with less accuracy. Jon, though, is a mystery to them all. "Do you not want him to know?"

Spencer fidgets. He shakes his head on the pillow. "Only because he's Ryan. You know what he's like."

"What's Jon gonna say?" Brendon wonders.

"I don't know, Brendon." He rolls away, curling up. Brendon follows, not sure, holding his hand above Spencer's hip until Spencer reaches back and drags him close. He covers Brendon's hand with his own. "Go to sleep."

He should sleep, but he can't. His heart is beating a little faster than usually, still, from before. He woke up and Spencer wasn't there, and Brendon feared the worst. Nobody had planned last night. But Spencer was still there, albeit in the bathtub, and it seemed things would be OK. Next, Brendon would have to work out what they were, but it was OK.

Spencer sounds tired, so Brendon lays quiet. It's late, he thinks, and they'll be up too early in the morning, thanks to Zack. It'll be a long day on the bus, too, onto the next city. It'll be a long day without a lot of touching, probably, so Brendon gets his fix now.

With the blanket pushed out of the way, Spencer's skin looks pale in the dark. It nearly shines with just shards of moonlight coming through the curtains. So soft and warm to the touch, Brendon can't believe he gets to do this. He's like a kid, playing with a new toy, careful not to break it on the first day.

Earlier, Spencer had made him come so fast, they barely got to do anything. They definitely hadn't tried anything big and scary. But they would. Practice, Brendon had said, as he leaned in for a kiss, but it wasn't, and they both knew it.

This feels more like practice. Brendon runs his fingers up and down Spencer's spine, watching the skin pop up with goosebumps and loving the little trembles. He could do this tomorrow, sitting together when they stop at a diner for lunch, slip his hand up Spencer's shirt, and wait. A touch that makes Spencer remember tonight, and, hopefully, makes him want to drag Brendon into the diner bathroom for a quick makeout.

He's thinking ahead now to all the places they could sneak away to, the green room, the tiny bus bathroom, Spencer's house in LA. Right here, this hotel room in Indiana, where no one else knows their secret, not yet.

It's probably the lateness of the hour, but this feels big. Suddenly, Brendon's hand on Spencer's back feels bigger than it did when it was his mouth on Spencer's cock. Now it counts. What it means, Brendon hasn't figured out yet, but it's big.

In the morning, after Brendon sleeps without remembering his dreams, Spencer rolls back and kisses him awake. That's the first thing Brendon remembers of the morning after, their breath and Spencer's lips and the way their hands link together at the small of Brendon's back. Spencer says, "Nice," and Brendon says, "Yeah," and they don't get out of bed until Zack pounds on the door.

"We can't," Spencer whispers when Brendon draws the edge of the curtain back silently. He makes a face back and motions Spencer to budge over.

They can, Spencer just doesn't want to with a bus full of people. Which is rational and all, sure, but Brendon's just drunk enough to be really horny. He doesn't respond, he wants to prove to Spencer they can do this quietly, but he does fit himself into the sliver of space Spencer's left him. Grudgingly, he bets.

Their heads are tucked close together. Spencer opens his mouth and Brendon puts a finger over it, silencing him. He mimics the gesture in front of his own mouth, smirking behind the finger over his lips. Spencer doesn't close his mouth nicely, he nips at Brendon's finger, catches it and bites down.

Brendon has to hold in the yelp he wants to give at that. He is focused. He is staying silent so he can prove to Spencer they can trade handjobs on a bus full of people.

He lets Spencer keep his finger clenched between his teeth. It's a good distraction, right? If Spencer's focused on biting him he won't notice Brendon undoing his pants.

Except Spencer does notice. It'd be hard not to notice, he guesses, with his knuckles brushing against Spencer's skin as he works his hand between them.

He loves it when Spencer sleeps shirtless. He rescues his finger from Spencer's mouth and traces it down Spencer's chest. It's almost dry by the time he reaches Spencer's nipple but the half-slickness is perfect to rub until Spencer's nipple is hard under his touch.

Spencer hisses, loud enough he can hear but soft enough no one else should be able to, not even Jon one bunk down. They can do this without waking everyone, he's certain. He flicks Spencer's nipple a few times, licking his lips. There's just enough light Spencer should be able to see him do it. Spencer's bunk light is out but there's a faint glow coming in from the hallway.

When Spencer sighs and reaches over him to tug the curtain all the way closed he knows he's won. He figures he's the holdup now Spencer's on board, since he's the one with all the clothes on. Spencer has sleep pants on. And he bets Spencer is wearing socks. He has no clue how Spencer can wear socks to sleep but he always does. Brendon agrees with Jon, toes need to be free to breathe, especially at night.

He wiggles out of his jeans slowly. He doesn't want to make too much noise by kicking them down. Spencer unbuttons his shirt for him. Brendon kisses him in thanks, which turns into a nice, long makeout. He's not normally this conscious of the sounds they make when they're kissing or the heaviness of their breathing. He starts paying more attention to the sounds than the kissing, to the small sussurrations and slight smacks and something he doesn't want to call a squelch but can't think of a better word for.

Spencer breaks the kiss. His eyes are adjusted to the dark, he thinks, but he still can't make much out. He relies on touch to help him shove Spencer's pants down, just enough he can circle Spencer's dick loosely with one hand. Spencer doesn't reach for his dick so he grabs Spencer's hand to get his hand down there. He's horny and maybe a little drunk and he wants Spencer and he wants this to be mutual.

Spencer's got the lotion. Spencer's smart. He kisses Spencer again as they start to build a rhythm, their wrists knocking against each other the times they don't get it quite right.

Brendon closes his eyes and rests his head so he and Spencer are forehead to forehead and he focuses on breathing evenly as they speed up. He's hyper alert, listening to the sounds they're making. Not much, not loud, but there's an undeniable, and undeniably sexy, sound to a handjob. Two at the same time is even more undeniable.

He lets himself a small sound, a brief whimper, when he gets close. It gets him what he wanted, it gets Spencer's mouth on his again, whether to muffle the sound or to be kissing when they come he doesn't care.

Spencer lets him cuddle close after they come. Because he's smart he has tissues to go with his lotion. Brendon sighs softly as Spencer cleans them up. That was nice, that was what he wanted.

He knows he can't stay the night, that the bunk is too small for both of them to sleep comfortably, and he pushes his luck until he's blurry in the head and nodding off but it's worth it. Spencer doesn't kick him out, at least.

There's no way he's getting his jeans back on from their heap at his feet. He doesn't really care, it's not like everyone on this bus hasn't seen him naked at some point or another.

When he reaches for the curtain to go Spencer stops him, puts a hand on his shoulder. "Thanks," Spencer whispers before a goodbye kiss. Brendon climbs down from the bunk feeling like the stealth ninja of handjobs. It's pretty awesome, he won't lie.

-

"Um," he covers his face with his hands. Spencer chortles into his neck. "Um." He's not quite sure what else to say.

"Did you really?" Spencer gropes downward. He twists away, curling over himself. He knows and Spencer knows and he knows Spencer knows but maybe if he denies it they can pretend.

It's really not his fault. It's been a few days since he's gotten off and longer than that since it was Spencer getting him off. They hadn't had an argument or anything, they'd just stopped. It's been longer than Brendon wants to think about. When Spencer had started to watch him, when he realized that feeling he was getting was Spencer's eyes tracking him from across a room or during an interview, well. He was excited. He let it linger, let it build between them, until Spencer had pounced, grabbing him after a show, pulling him into their hotel room with an urgency he'd mirrored.

Only he wasn't mirroring, he was ahead, and now his junk's getting sticky and cold while Spencer laughs into his neck.

"Wow, I am flattered," Spencer sucks a kiss on the back of his neck, "but I am still going to come all over you." Brendon laughs but doesn't uncurl. Spencer's pressed against his back and half draped over him, still groping downward but subtly so. Brendon keeps fighting him off.

"Stop it," comes out whiny and he flushes, doubly-embarrassed.

"You jizzed in your pants, man, it's funny, deal." Spencer's shaking silently with laughter as he unbuckles Brendon's belt. Brendon concedes defeat and lets Spencer strip him, roughly and eagerly.

"I can probably go again," he offers, when Spencer's kneeling over him, jerking himself off idly. Spencer's expression shifts slightly, goes ambivalent then distant, Brendon seeing it because he knows Spencer's face well, because he's looking for any clues Spencer might give him. Spencer shrugs but Brendon stays where he is, doesn't reach for his cock despite his definite renewed interest.

"Or I could stay just like this." His hands are clasped over his belly. He slowly draws his fingers apart, watching Spencer watch his hands. He grips his own hipbones quickly, watching as Spencer's rhythm speeds up and his mouth opens. "I could stay like this and you could come all over me."

Spencer bites his lips, glaring down at him and he grins back, elated.

"You like this?" He lets go of his left hipbone, teasingly runs his fingers up his chest. He brushes over his neck like Spencer often does. When he licks his lips back at Spencer, Spencer's breathing speeds up. He raises an eyebrow, licks his thumb, and lower his eyelids. He lowers his wet thumb to circle around his nipple, then flicks.

"I like this," Spencer echoes him, softly. Brendon grins and puts his hand behind his head, arching to display his chest.

Spencer knee-walks up from straddling his thighs to straddling his chest. Brendon realizes they're actually going to do this. Spencer's cock is close enough that Brendon could maybe reach it, if he tried, could straighten his head up to get his mouth on it, could hope Spencer would make it easy on him.

But he doesn't. Spencer threatened to come on him, promised it, he doesn't think Spencer wants to come in his mouth. He doesn't think Spencer wants him to do anything more than look pretty.

He wonders how well Spencer is holding out, though he can guess. Spencer looks flushed and sex-happy and maybe a little further along than he'd admit to Brendon. Brendon can tell these things though, knows what Spence looks like. He switches from watching Spencer's face to watching the action closer to home.

And, yeah, Spencer is close. He opens his mouth slightly, licks his lips, tries not to make it too over the top. "How you doing there, Spence?" he asks breathy.

Spencer hunches over as he comes, streaking Brendon's chest, and it's like Brendon's been released; he's stroking his own dick before Spencer's fully finished. It's too dry and he has an obvious solution but it doesn't hurt that Spencer groans, groans and whimpers, when Brendon swipes some of the come near his collarbones to use on himself.

Spencer's about to become a dead weight on top of him but he can do this quickly, he knows. After playing Spencer's still life he's sprung tight, ready to release.

"You're not going to last any longer than you did the first time, are you?" Spencer braces himself on one arm over Brendon and Brendon realizes how little they've needed to touch each other to make this work, make it hot.

Spencer kisses him lackadaisically, shoving his tongue into Brendon's mouth as if that's enough. He's not ashamed to find that is enough, because it's hot, but he can't let Spencer get away with thinking that type of laziness should be encouraged. He'll show him he needs more, needs better. Later.

-

"What is this rule again?" Jon asks. He's just come out of the shower, so when he moves to sit next to Spencer on the couch. Spencer lets him.

"I'm calling it The No, Brendon, Get The Fuck Away From Me Rule."

"Catchy."

"Only after shows, you understand. Before he showers."

"Of course." While he's scrubbing his hair with the towel, Jon leans back, kicks up his feet onto the low table in the centre of the room. He lifts both arms and tosses the towel, letting out a silent cheer when it hits the opposite wall. "Is there a No, Jon, Get The Fuck Away From Me Corollary?"

"It's under advisement." Spencer bumps his shoulder. "You're sweaty boys. We do what we can to protect ourselves."

"How 'bout if I get you high?" He holds his fingers, pinched, up to his lips.

Grinning, Spencer says, "Yeah, all right."

They slip out of the green room, but don't quite make it outside before Dan catches them. Jon makes the international symbol for weed again, and the three of them stand against a wall, smoking, Spencer's foot holding the door open.

The first joint goes fast, burned down to Spencer's fingers before he gets his third drag. Dan steps back inside to see how everyone else is coming and, once he's disappeared, Jon produces yet another perfectly rolled joint from wherever he hides them.

"Maybe we don't need a Jon rule," Spencer admits, and it's cemented when Jon lights up and gives Spencer dibs. "The Brendon rule is about Brendon, really. You know what he's like."

Jon nods. Then he takes the joint back from Spencer and shakes his head. "I don't know what he's like with you. That's something else."

Spencer shrugs. "Not really."

"Then you're not paying enough attention." Jon pulls the door open and heads inside. Spencer watches him, holding half a joint still burning. It's not like Jon to walk away before they're done.

He smokes the rest quickly, not wanting it to go to waste, but now it's just sad. Spencer's lost all his post-show buzz, so he might as well go inside. The guys'll be ready to go, and this night can be over.

Him and Brendon, it's not anything. It's some fun to fill the time and without all the baggage. What Jon thinks he's seeing, Spencer doesn't know.

"You suck, Smith." Brendon's pointing an accusatory finger in his direction when Spencer gets back to the dressing room. He's wearing a pair of khaki shorts and grinning like a crazy person.

"What are you on about?"

"Jon gave you up. He told me what you were doing out there. Sad, really." Brendon crosses the room, stopping at the couch where Ryan and Jon are sitting. He puts a hand on Jon's shoulder and shakes his head, mournfully. "He'd never stand up to torture."

"We ready to go?" Spencer asks Ryan. He's more likely to get an answer.

They lead the way out, find Zack at the end of the hall, and Brendon keeps talking the whole way. He's on a roll, telling the story of Jon Walker, bass player and secret agent, who fights crime and makes records, but spills the secrets of national security and rock 'n' roll mere moments after capture. Jon walks behind with Brendon, encouraging him all the way into the bus.

Ryan stops them before they can write a song. He asks Jon to help him make popcorn, and he tells Brendon to pick out a movie.

"No James Bond," Spencer says.

"Fine." He puts something in the DVD player, then steps back to fall onto the couch next to Spencer. "Am I allowed to be here now?"

"You're good now."

"Good." Brendon smiles up at him, leans in with warm breath and chapped lips, and Spencer doesn't want to watch a movie. Maybe they're not secret agents, but they're fucking rock stars. He wants to stay up too late and drink too much and kiss until someone tells him to stop, and they'll keep kissing out of spite.

"I don't care if you're sweaty, get down here," and he pulls Brendon into his lap and on top with both hands fisted in his shirt.

"I took a shower, Spence." Brendon's mouth moves up his neck and across Spencer's jaw. "That's the rule."

Spencer isn't thinking about the rules right now. He's hard, and Brendon's hard against him, too, finding each other, even through their jeans. He's thinking about what this might look like when Jon and Ryan get back with the popcorn, but it's not enough to stop Spencer's hands sliding down to cup Brendon's ass and hold him close to thrust against.

Maybe they look like Spencer and Brendon, just doing something to pass the time. Or maybe it looks like more than that. Spencer can't tell.

-

He won't stay quiet. That's always the problem with Brendon. Mostly, Spencer doesn't care. Brendon can shout and sing and laugh as loud as he wants. On the stage, on TV, it works. It's how they got here after all.

But Spencer's not going to blow him in the cramped bunk space on the bus if Brendon doesn't shut the hell up.

"But how am I supposed to tell you how good you do that, Oh, Spencer, Oh?" His voice goes flat, but Brendon's still smiling, making a joke.

"Just tap my head. I'll get the picture."

Spencer only agreed to do this on the bus when they thought it would be empty for the night. Or another hour at least. Spencer much prefers sex in a bed, behind a locked door. But as soon as Brendon lead the way from making out to open zippers, the door slammed open and everyone--the whole damn tour--filed on.

"We're bringing the party home!" Jon says, bottle in hand. He also ropes Brendon into a Guitar Hero tournament.

"Just a sec, OK?" Brendon pulls Spencer towards the back. They only just got their pants back on before anyone saw anything. Well, Spencer's sure Ryan figured it out.

"But I'm already hard," Brendon whined, and Spencer could see that, and he did feel a little bad, even though it had been Brendon on top and leading this show. Now he expected Spencer to play him offstage.

"Fine," Spencer agreed. Quick blowjob, Brendon comes, minimal embarrassment. "But you have to stay quiet."

They're words Brendon doesn't often hear. He can't take them seriously. So Spencer uses one hand across his mouth while the other is holding his dick. It's enough. It muffles Brendon's groans and reduces the number of high-pitched squeaks by half. Spencer can get to work without the distraction.

"You do that so good, Oh, Spencer, Oh." Brendon tries, but he starts laughing before he gets the whole thing out.

"I'm done." He drops Brendon's erection and slides off the bunk.

"C'mon, I was only kidding!" Brendon has a harder time getting out of his top bunk. He had pushed his pants all the way down to his ankles, and his underwear is tangled around his knees. He falls, but Spencer steps easily out of the way before Brendon hits the floor.

"You were supposed to stay quiet, moron." There are too many people on this bus to argue. Spencer's getting a drink. Hopefully Jon hasn't finished his bottle yet.

He squeezes onto the couch, between Ryan and Jon, where they're watching the game, laughing at something that Spencer has obviously missed.

"Where have you been?" Ryan asks, raising an eyebrow because he knows.

"Shut up." It's so loud out here in the lounge, Spencer doesn't bother making conversation. Ryan couldn't follow if he wanted to. They share the bottle silently, and Jon offers Spencer the last. It says enough without saying anything.

Eventually, Brendon makes his entrance. Maybe he looks sorry, but Spencer can't be sure, and the look is gone as soon as a cheer goes up, and he gets called to the game. He grabs a guitar and kicks everyone's ass. Of course. Brendon wouldn't settle for anything less.

It's just stupid. A tour bus is no place to have a relationship. It'll be better when they get home. If they ever get home.

Somehow, Spencer makes it to a bunk to sleep, if it can be called sleep, and when he wakes up, he discovers it actually is his bunk. That's his iPod shoved between the wall and the mattress. He leaves it there. He could really do with some quiet.

Spencer whirls around as best he can in the cramped space to smack the hand sneaking into his bunk. Brendon. Of course.

"What do you want?"

Brendon grins. No answer. No sound. Spencer sees where this is going. So he turns on his back. He gets comfortable. He lifts his hips when Brendon asks with a touch of his hand.

He isn't hard yet, but that doesn't feel like the point this time. His orgasm feels miles off, and Spencer's content to lay back and wait. He'll get there. Brendon will get them there.

Every touch is so careful. Every touch is Brendon's apology. Spencer wants to say, I'm sorry, too, it's not your fault. He wants to say something, but he doesn't need to. Brendon will know in the quiet and the darkness of this morning, and when Spencer can't hold back any longer, when he needs to let something out, a bare gasp, maybe, as quiet as he can make it, Brendon will know what it means.

They kiss afterwards, mouths perpendicular, but meeting just right. The taste of Spencer on Brendon's lips masks everything else. He doesn't need the words because he has that.

-

"Nap with me." Brendon smiles up from the bed, surrounded my pillows and dirty laundry. The pile of t-shirts where Spencer would sleep next to Brendon makes it easy to say no.

"We need some real food." He's going downstairs, so Spencer takes a minute to gather up the empty mugs, crushed red Solo cups, pizza boxes, and foil containers, still sticky with sweet and sour. "I need some real food."

So he leaves Brendon in bed, carts his load of trash down to the kitchen, and opens up the fridge. It's like a guessing game each time, a surprise what he might find inside, if anything.

They weren't thinking about food when they rented the cabin. "Nothing but music," Ryan had promised, but, of course, that's not what happened. It never is.

Yet Spencer can find a guitar if he wanted, doesn't have to take two steps before tripping on a drumstick, and he thinks he hears someone playing something somewhere now. He can find the music, discordant as it is, but a green vegetable is a little harder.

In the fridge, there's a block of white cheese, and on the counter, Spencer finds a cinnamon raisin bagel drying out. Toasted and melted, it works. He eats half there in the kitchen, running some more hot water over the dishes still in the sink and brushing crumbs under the fridge with his foot. He takes the other half upstairs for Brendon.

"Fooood," Brendon growls, under the sheets. He's not napping. He's pulled Spencer's laptop under the blanket with him. He's playing three tracks at once, and Spencer's sure none are from the same song.

Brendon's hand sneaks out and steals the bagel blind.

"We need groceries," Spencer says, loud, so Brendon can hear. Now that he's rid the room of trash, Spencer starts on the laundry.

"You go shopping." Brendon's mouth is full. He mutes the drums and turns up the bass. "I'll stay here and make music."

It's been a week in the cabin. Spencer wrestles with the window, yanking the blinds out of his way and getting it open only through sheer brute force. They've been here a week, but Spencer feels now like it might have been longer. The deep breath of mountain air he pulls into his lungs clears the fog of their lives so far, and it might have been fun, but it's time to do some work.

"What are you actually doing under there, Brendon?"

"Oh!" He throws off the blanket with a flourish. He's sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, and there are crumbs at the side of his mouth. "Jon and I were talking last night." Oh no. "What do you think about subliminal messages?"

Spencer stares him down, and Brendon laughs it off.

"It would be awesome," he tries again. Brendon calls after him when Spencer leaves, looking for the others, a pile of laundry in his arms.

Shane left a couple of days ago (Spencer thinks it was a couple of days ago), but there are cameras left forgotten on tables and on windowsills. There are socks in the hallway and shirts hung on doorknobs. Spencer collects it all as he goes. Then he drops the pile in front of Ryan's bedroom door. There is no sound inside.

Jon is asleep in the bathtub. He doesn't even flinch when Spencer flushes the toilet.

"OK," Brendon says when Spencer gets back. "What about if I play drums?"

"Um."

"And you play drums, too!" Brendon is quick to add. "This is what I'm saying. And Jon plays drums. I don't know about Ryan--maybe we'll just give him a tambourine stick."

Spencer nods. "Keep him out of trouble."

"Wall of sound," Brendon whispers. There are hand gestures, too.

"Fuck yeah."

He kneels on the bed and leans forward, closing the laptop with one hand and putting it on the floor with the other. Brendon figures it out. They may be living on sugar and weed, but he figures out what Spencer means to do with his hands and his lips. His knees hold Brendon down.

Spencer kisses the crumbs away, and then just Brendon. Lips a little dry, so he licks, draws his tongue across, and Brendon opens so easily to him. Brendon lays back, throws his arms back. He lets Spencer do all the work, not even hands in Spencer's hair like usual or long lanky legs wrapped tight around Spencer's waist.

He's not tired anymore. He's certainly not bored. Brendon's hips are jerking up; his shorts are coming down. Spencer leaves Brendon clutching the top of the bed. Blowjob first, he thinks.

If they're not going to make an album, they might as well do this. Besides, this is something they've done more than once. Spencer knows how to make it good, every song, every time.

-

Brendon's been surly for days, the type of simmering tension that's just far enough under the surface none of them can call him on it, not quite yet.

Spencer finds it annoying. He wants to be supportive and patient but Brendon's not helping himself, here, he's not letting them talk to him about whatever's going on, not channeling his anger into anything other than the occasional snide remark. And Spencer can guess why he's angry, it's the same old song, something to do with his family. It has to be, because when it's something having to do with the band Brendon tries to come across as a blank slate, as if he's not angry or annoyed or anything other than excited to be writing and playing music with his best friends.

Which means Spencer's been goading Brendon for the last day, cutting him off and trying to get him to actually do something or say something he can respond do. He's being a provocative little shit, since Brendon's being a passive aggressive little shit.

It's not working. And, whatever, Brendon's not his to fix, Brendon doesn't want to be fixed, but Spencer's starting to feel like an ass. He's starting to get pissed at himself and at Brendon since they're slowly turning into a reality television show. And not even a good one.

Brendon's somewhere in the cabin, probably with Jon. If Spencer's lucky they're smoking up and bitching, which is exactly what he and Ryan are doing, but without the thin veneer of circumlocution Ryan requires before he starts looking shifty and guilty.

It's nice, though, perching up on the kitchen counter and passing the bowl back and forth, whining at Ryan knowing Ryan will listen. He doesn't let himself do this often and when he does it's usually with Ryan. In a weird way this is their bonding time.

He's not sure if Ryan does it on purpose or because he's stupid and stoned and stupidly stoned but Ryan prods at Brendon the rest of the afternoon, prods at him in the worst ways, the ways that really get under Brendon's skin. Spencer thinks Ryan might be doing it out of some misconstrued sense of loyalty. Spencer hates it and he has no way to tell Ryan to knock it off without looking like he might've started the whole thing.

Which, maybe he did, in a certain light. He just knows the third time Ryan breaks off a song to ask Brendon to sing something the same but with more of an emphasis on a different syllable Brendon looks like he's two seconds away from burning Ryan's eyelashes off with the lighter in his pocket.

He does something he's never tried before. He's spent a lot of time thinking about ways and things to break up arguments like this, but he goes with one of his most ambitious and potentially stupid plans: he fakes a wrist injury.

Jon goes to get ice while Brendon and Ryan hover over him. He stays calm, doesn't get flustered, and holds his right wrist in his left hand until Jon gets back, smelling suspiciously of a cigarette or two. He can tell Ryan is close to panicking and Brendon is close to going on another five hour nature walk. He thanks them all then suggests they break for the day, smoke up and watch something to help Spencer numb the pain.

It works, in a way. Spencer ends up with a lapful of Brendon, warm and sleepy, and Ryan and Jon sneak out to go to the roof. It's Spencer and Jon's place but he can share, and Ryan looks like he needs it. Spencer's feeling guilty. Ryan's eyes keep flicking to his wrist.

He thinks Brendon's pretty close to asleep on top of him, truly sleeping for the first time in a week, if Spencer guesses correctly. Brendon feels smaller when he gets quiet, when he isn't occupying the space around him as if it were just an accessory to the physical space his body occupies.

Still, he shakes Brendon awake. "I want a handjob," he pouts, waving his supposedly injured one around. It's his normal jerk off hand, as Brendon should well know, which means needing a handjob from Brendon makes total sense.

Brendon seems to agree.

Brendon jerks him off exceptionally and without any foreplay whatsoever. He barely moves from where he's already draped over Spencer, which he finds hotter than he expected, having Brendon draped bonelessly over him, not even kissing him, but with his hand fast and warm on Spencer's dick.

He doesn't go to return the favor after he's done, to preserve the fiction. Brendon's solicitous, surprisingly so, considering he already proved he's with the program, until he realizes Brendon's attitude is just buttering him up, getting him ready for the big question. He rolls his eyes and rolls to his stomach, supporting himself on elbow and knee without a second thought.

-

"We don't have to talk about it, right?" Brendon wants to make sure. Jon's holding that joint close to his chest, like he won't give it up until Brendon's given up something else in return.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Jon asks, carefully. His eyes are wide open, and he's not even stoned yet.

"No."

"Then we won't," and he lets Brendon have a pull.

He lets Brendon have the whole thing, and Brendon makes it last. He sucks in enough smoke and air to fill his lungs and lets it stay there, swirling. Damn his voice and the album. Brendon just wants to get high and forget.

"But if we were going to talk about it..." Jon trails off when Brendon turns towards his voice. Jon's his best bet for this kind of thing--Zack would make him apologise to Spencer. Him! Apologise! Even though it totally wasn't his fault. Man up and say you're sorry, Zack would say, and Brendon would argue that Spencer started it, but it wouldn't ever matter.

Today, Jon's being weird. They're lying on the floor together upstairs, with the door pulled shut and a chair under the knob. Jon shoved some towels at the bottom to stop any leaks. It's barely a hot box, but the best they could pull together in an emergency.

Jon's wearing a pair of khaki shorts and nothing else. Brendon's back in his sleep pants after they went out looking for breakfast. It's as much of a rebellion as they can muster. Too soon, Ryan's going to be back up here, telling them to get dressed. Too soon, they'll have to be a band again, instead of two stoned boys with aching hearts.

"Why aren't you talking to him?" Jon asks.

"Why aren't you talking to him?" Brendon counters.

Jon rolls over on his side, up on his elbow. He steals the joint right out from between Brendon's teeth. "I talk to Spencer all the time. At breakfast, we talked about doing a drum and bass solo secret song."

Of course, Jon knows what Brendon's asking. Nobody has been getting along with anybody. Ryan's deep into one of his epic moods, which means only Spencer can deal with him, and this time, Spencer refuses. Brendon gets stuck with the constant critique, the target of every one of Ryan's insecurities. So it's really Ryan's fault that Brendon has been ignoring Spencer, and now Spencer won't deal with him, either.

By the end of this album, Panic at the Disco might really be a just drum and bass solo.

Brendon wants another hit, so Jon lights up another joint. It's a seemingly neverendless supply from the side pocket of his shorts. Jon can always be counted on for that. That must be why he wears the same pair for days on end.

"Spencer isn't talking to me. That's the problem," Brendon explains. Jon nods, agreeing or just nodding. Things are getting fuzzy now. He wonders if they've been high this whole trip. Maybe they never did come down. Maybe that's what the fight was about. "Do you remember what the fight was about?"

"Which one?" Jon asks. Brendon doesn't know.

"The one that Ryan's going to turn into our next hit single."

"Oh, yeah." Jon doesn't know.

They're lying there, curled up in the smoke, when Ryan bangs on the door and tells them to get downstairs. Apparently he's had a breakthrough or some bullshit. Brendon pulls on a shirt and throws one at Jon, too, who stretches it out as soon as it's over his head.

Everything's set up in a big room off the living area--probably the dining room. Now it's where Panic at the Disco is making a godawful album that even Brendon can't figure out. He stands to the side, hanging off his microphone stand, listening to Ryan and Jon noodling around on their guitars. Making noise, but going nowhere.

"What's the fucking melody, Ross? Give me something I can sing!"

And then Spencer breaks his wrist. Brendon wasn't looking, obviously, but he does something to his wrist that makes him swear and fumble his sticks. Jon gets ice, Ryan gets quiet, and Brendon just stays close. Everyone holds their breath.

Spencer cradles his arm with the ice pack and suggests they stop for the day. They'd barely started, but it wasn't going anywhere. It's not like they're going to lose a great masterpiece. Besides, this is better, hanging out in front of the TV, on the couch, or rather, in Spencer's lap. Spencer doesn't seem to mind. Brendon even falls asleep.

"You OK?" he murmurs, a soft shake pulling him back to consciousness.

Spencer nods. He holds up his injured arm. "I want a handjob," he says, pouting.

Fucker, Brendon laughs. They're OK. By the time he's done making Spencer come, they're amazing.

-

Brendon wakes up, and Spencer is singing in the shower. Always with the music. He waits, listens. It's still The Beatles. They'll probably be singing it all day. Better than the atonal, multi-syllabic songs Ryan has been foisting on them.

This cabin thing isn't working out. Everyone knows it, and no one is saying anything. Discussions quickly turn into debates, and from there it's all-out shouting matches with nothing to show for it at the end. Then Ryan and Brendon look around the room and Spencer and Jon are gone. The album isn't working out.

They're still not talking about it, but it feels like the end. Brendon spends more time up here in Spencer's bedroom than down where their instruments are. Where Ryan is. Spencer goes down to get food and run interference. Jon comes up to hang out and smoke up. Brendon tries not to bitch too much because he knows Jon's nervous. This was supposed to be their first album together.

Over the sound of the water and through the closed door, Brendon can hear Spencer move on from "Hello Goodbye" to "Drive My Car." Brendon punches the air and joins in with the "beep beep, beep beep, yeah."

"Hey," Jon yells through the door. "Can Ringo jam, too?"

Jon has taken to calling himself Ringo. Although, Brendon argues, Spencer is the drummer of their foursome, but, Jon argues back, he is the latecomer. Spencer argues that you can't give yourself a nickname.

"Hello, Jon Walker," Brendon yells back. Jon takes that as permission to come in. He flops onto the bed with Brendon, and Brendon cuddles up to his chubby belly before remembering he's only wearing boxer shorts. "Oops."

"Put some pants on," Spencer tells him, coming out of the bathroom in the t-shirt and sweats he slept in, damp now, and a towel around his neck. He looks fresh and clean, and Brendon could leap across the room and get him dirty again in no time at all. But he puts some pants on instead. Jeans from the floor, too big, too long, probably Spencer's.

"I'm hiding up here with you guys," Jon explains. "Paul," he says, pointing at Spencer, then at Brendon, "George."

"I wish I could write something as good as 'Something'." Brendon picks out a clean shirt and joins him on the bed again. There's no TV in the bedrooms. They didn't want the distraction, but now Brendon is dying for it. "Sing me something, Spencer?"

At the foot of the bed, Spencer squints one eye and then the other, as if he's trying to pull Jon and Brendon into focus. He snuggles in further. Jon is actually really cold. He must have been sitting outside, probably on that roof spot he and Spencer love so much. You can see everything up there, but hear nothing from inside.

"'Something' something?" Spencer asks.

Brendon shrugs one shoulder. He wasn't thinking that particular song, but it works. It's just Spencer's style.

Spencer looks away, back towards the bedroom door, closed again. Brendon can't hear anything, but he wonders if Spencer can, using his secret best friend powers. When he turns back to them, he almost looks like he might sing. This would be a first. Spencer only sings in the shower (when Brendon isn't in there with him) or in the studio when Ryan stares him down and when everyone else is singing, too.

Jon burps, and the moment is lost. Spencer doubles over laughing. Brendon could even feel the vibrations. Now the whole bed shakes with their laughter. He rolls over on his back and tries to catch his breath. Spencer falls across their legs.

This is what the cabin was supposed to be about. Maybe a little more singing, but just like this.

Jon sticks around for a while, even pulling out a joint from his neverending pockets. The smoke in a pile on the bed, passing the joint blind to whoever grabs it first. Spencer is on Brendon and Brendon is on Jon and Jon is on the bed. Jon explains that he doesn't really want to be Ringo, because he knows what people say, but that's the way it is.

"Maybe you can be Stu?" Spencer suggests.

"He can't be Stu, Spence. I don't want Jon to die." Brendon clings to Jon's thigh, just in case.

"But I'd have a kickass girlfriend." Jon's really thinking about it now. Like it matters. Like they have to decide. But if Brendon has to decide, he doesn't want to be Paul, either.

"We make our own myth," Spencer says. He turns his face into Brendon's belly. He rubs his nose there, pulling Brendon's attention back to him. Brendon lays his hand on Spencer's head. "Some day, kids are going to argue about being Brendon Urie or Jon Walker."

Brendon grins. "You think?" Spencer smiles, too, right at Brendon, just for him. "Or Spencer Smith?"

"You all want to be me," Jon says, voice strained with holding the smoke in. Brendon tilts back to watch him let it out, a thin, grey cloud. "Admit it."

Brendon admits nothing, except to himself, how much he needed this moment right now, to get through the rest of the day. A heavy drum thump starts downstairs, the rest of the day calling him out.

-

"Oh god, how are we this busy?" Brendon drops onto the bed like a dead weight. "I though the whole point was to take some time off after two years touring?"

Spencer closes his laptop. "We've been in a cabin in the middle of the woods for months, what the fuck are you talking about?" Brendon sits up at Spencer's annoyed tone. He'd been joking, he thought Spencer would get that.

"Do you want me to go?" he gestures over his shoulder toward the door, his room. It's not like it's unused, he could easily go.

Spencer sighs as he puts his laptop on the bedside table. "No." Brendon doesn't want to ask what's bothering him, though it's clear something is. He's pretty sure there's nothing he can do. It's either the band or it's not the band. Both have their implications and Brendon thinks they should spend their time doing something better than talk about the problems they can't fix.

"I think I just forgot how time consuming recording is," Brendon shimmies out of his jeans as he speaks. Spencer watches him, oddly intent for an action Brendon knows he's seen more than once. Many more times than once.

Brendon feels hoarse from take after take, over and over, not even half making it to any type of recording. He'd practiced til he had it perfect then something would happen during the take or Ryan would decide it would sound better if he'd tried something different. The latitude in determining melody, the melodies he'd have to sing, isn't what he'd thought it would be. It maybe sucks.

Spencer's still watching him with a fixed expression. He watches back, trying to figure out what's going on. It isn't a stare that makes him feel comfortable.

"I'm not sure the cabin thing is working out," he says, surprising himself. It makes him feel more naked than he is to say it. He's been thinking it for a while, since the photoshoot. Their little world had been peered into by the wider world, a wider world with a camera and an opinion and a very bright flash. Once he'd realized how they might look from the outside he'd started to get self conscious. Their nights of music and fun, their facial hair competitions and utter self-indulgence have no structure, nothing to hold them together.

"I know." Spencer sounds grim, like Brendon's realization hurts him. He doesn't know what to say but he doesn't break Spencer's gaze and he doesn't cover himself up.

Music starts up downstairs and it shocks them out of staring at each other. Brendon laughs as he recognizes it, at the way Ryan uncannily picked the soundtrack for their conversation.

"It hasn't been worthless," he muses, reaching out to tickle Spencer's foot. Spencer kicks him away easily.

"Of course it hasn't," Spencer pokes his toe into his side. "It just hasn't been working, either."

He can't disagree so he doesn't. He starts humming along. He looks up and Spencer's watching him again but this time without the line between his eyebrows and the heaviness to his shoulders. Brendon crawls up the bed to him, singing "Hello, hello!" over and over, with the music and without it. Spencer opens his arms for him and he crawls right in.

"I don't know why you say goodbye, I say hello," Spencer's singing voice is always a surprise, now more than ever, strong and sweet and only a little tentative with just Brendon as audience. Brendon grants him a kiss in reward.

"See," he whispers when he pulls back. "Always with the music."

It doesn't quite make sense but it makes enough sense for Spencer to brush a hand along his cheek, murmur something back and pull him in for another kiss.

It's not like they're magically fixed or anything but something about these kisses is lighter, more relaxed than the contact they keep allowing themselves. Brendon thinks maybe they were using each other to ground themselves but hiding it, because why would they need grounding if everything was fine?

It's not slow but it's not fast it's just the pace it is, the pace of familiarity. Or so Brendon thinks, until Spencer grabs his hips and rolls them over, then it is fast, fast and rough and frantic in a way Brendon hasn't felt in a while. It's good.

Spencer doesn't want to seem to pull back to take his clothes off. His jeans chafe Brendon's inner thighs, a light burn he can live with for now. Brendon doesn't know why they flipped a switch but he loves it. He bites Spencer's lip until Spencer jerks back, brings a hand to his mouth. Spencer's eyes promise so much revenge as ducks his head down to Brendon's nipple level. It's OK, he's ready for the rest of the adventure.

-

The fight was about Ryan. Most of their fights are about Ryan. He maybe hates it. He maybe loves it. It means they have something to fight about that isn't about them, that isn't about their relationship. Fighting about Ryan is easier than fighting about Haley or Brendon's hookups.

Whatever, he wears condoms. It's not something they've needed to talk about.

But. The fight was about Ryan and it was pretty stupid if you ask Brendon. The fight shouldn't mean he doesn't get a goodnight cuddle with a possible side of sex, he doesn't think, which is why it's extra frustrating Spencer seems to disagree.

They're squared off on opposite sides of the bed. Brendon's clutching the pillow Spencer threw at him, wielding it like a shield. "Dude?" Brendon questions. He thought the fight was over and, besides, Spencer really sticks to the rule about never going to bed angry. You might go to bed grumpy but never angry.

"I am so sick of being this guy," Spencer heaves a deep breath. Brendon thinks the stakes for this might have been higher than he thought. Normally he and Spencer can have fits and spats, especially over Ryan, and be fine, but Spencer looks a little wild in the eyes. Brendon really doesn't know what he's going to do if Spencer starts crying, it would be like a statue crumbling before his eyes.

"You can be whatever guy you want, Spence." He tosses the pillow back on the bed, trying to figure out what to do. Spencer doesn't move but he makes a face at Brendon's attempt to be supportive.

Spencer's their bedrock, they all know that. Spencer knows the value of a good night's rest and a good homecooked meal, a firm hug and a long chat. Spencer smokes and drinks with them but knows when to turn the TV off and get up to do an interview. He calls his parents every day, has pictures of his sisters on his iPhone. He makes Brendon wish he wanted to be an adult. He'd be Brendon's blueprint.

"What do you want me to say?" They're still standing there, frozen.

"That's not fucking fair," Spencer rubs his eyes with his wrists. "You're asking me to tell you what to tell me to feel better. That's a fucking joke, right?"

"OK, Spencer," he takes a deep breath. "You can be sick of being you but I'm not sick of you being you. It's completely selfish to say this while you're having a breakdown or whatever but without you being you we couldn't be us." He thinks that sounds pretty pathetic, so he adds, "and I like you being you."

Spencer's got one hand on his head, looking at Brendon with exasperation. It reminds him of his mother in a way he wishes it didn't. "You know," Spencer shakes his head, letting his hands fall. "You may be an ass but sometimes you say the right thing."

"Thanks?" he shrugs exaggeratedly, facing his palms out, like he would if he were on camera. Spencer knows the move, has seen him do it in more scripted moments, but doesn't say anything. It's still tense in the room, it still feels like they're squared off across the bed. "Can we get into bed now?" He doesn't even know what time it is. It doesn't matter, they'll sleep until they're woken up. Spencer probably called for a wake-up call.

Spencer shakes his head again. "Go ahead, get in. I'm going to take a shower." Brendon looks at the bed, considering. "Alone."

"You'll at least sleep here?"

"Of course." Spencer gives him a weird look. But, seriously, there's nothing set in stone here, Brendon doesn't know.

He nestles while Spencer's showering. It doesn't feel right, doesn't feel comfortable, beyond the physical comfort of the really huge and heavy down duvet. It's the type of duvet he's used to from the nights at the good place on tour, that he's trying to find for home even though it'll mean he has to turn the a/c up to adjust.

He doesn't want to fall asleep without Spencer but he's not very coherent when he emerges. Spencer's hair is half dry. Brendon's not surprised, the shower turned off ages ago. "Hey," he says sleepily when Spencer pulls back the covers. "Feel better?"

"I do, thank you." Spencer spoons up behind him. It's what he wanted, it feels right. "Next time your practical advice can be to tell me to take a shower, how does that sound?"

Brendon gropes for Spencer's hand, brings it up to kiss his knuckles. "Don't stop being Spencer. I'm a selfish bastard, I like you how you are."

Spencer sighs into his neck. "It's too late to change you lot now, I suppose."

"You're stuck with us for life, Spencer Smith." It's the last thing he remembers saying before he drops off to sleep.

-

"We could never be roommates," Ryan says, and even though he's pretty out of it, Spencer seems to agree. Shane catches his nodding as a blur in the frame.

"What?" Brendon gets up off the dirt and flops down between them on the couch. "That's craziness. You guys are best friends."

"Also," Jon says, pointing his beer at them through the flames. "Didn't you used to sleep in Spencer's bed when you were kids?"

Spencer's quick with an answer, "No," and he narrows his eyes, evil-like, at Jon. Ryan backs him up with more drunken nodding.

"But--" They all turn to look at him, the whole band, and Shane realises then that he hasn't spoken all night. He coughs and starts again. "But isn't months spent on buses and in cabins pretty much like being roommates?"

They trade looks, all four of them, and Shane can only read about half of what's going on, but it feels like a cover-up. It's Spencer who finally says, "No. Not at all. Totally different," and the conversation moves on to marshmallows.

They're spending the night outside, around a bonfire in Shane and Brendon's backyard. Spencer's been here for days now (Shane thinks it's days, but it could be weeks. He's spent most of it in the spare room they're calling the editing bay, cutting film and losing time.) Jon just got into town, Ryan picked him up, and they're been here ever since. His luggage is still stacked in the hall because Ryan drove them straight from the airport. They brought the subs, and Spencer brought beer, and Shane and Brendon raided their kitchen for anything else, which wasn't much, admittedly.

Enough for a night with friends around the fire though, because Shane didn't need much more than this and his camera.

Shane eats with them, travels with them, lives with them. He's there when the band is working, right there, in it like he belongs, but outside at the same time, and that's probably why he still doesn't understand. The four of them together--that's easier. Shane would rather some reporter asked him to explain Panic-the-band and not Panic-the-individuals.

Breaking them down into parts makes it harder, actually.

Ryan says he and Spencer would be bad roommates, and Spencer agrees, yet, as far as Shane knows, Jon stays at Ryan's house whenever he's in town. So Ryan can be a good roommate.

Brendon can be a good roommate. He always makes sure they have marshmallows and sharpened green sticks waiting for a bonfire. He crawls into bed with Shane when neither of them are ready to face their guests. Brendon can kiss, but Shane won't let it be more than that.

And Spencer's over at their house enough that Shane feels he has enough evidence to judge him as a good roommate. Spencer knows how to cook--that's it right there.

Ryan says, "In fairness, I couldn't be roommates with any of you." He turns a smile to Shane's camera, then, perfectly framed. "Except you, Shane."

"Shut up," Brendon says and gives Ryan a pretty good elbow.

Spencer breaks it up by wrapping his arm around Brendon's shoulders and dragging him away from Ryan. Sometimes Shane doesn't get it, but that's when Brendon's out there being the lead singer in a band. Those guys are completely different people. Around the fire, feet in Ryan's lap and head on Spencer's shoulder, Brendon is only Brendon. He remembers that he doesn't have to be anything more than that.

Even when Shane puts the cameras away, he still stands apart. And as it should be. They're a band, and he's not. It must be easy for Brendon to turn to Spencer. He does it all the time. Shane watches because that's his job. He actually gets paid for it.

He's good at it, too, and Shane thinks he was the first to see how Brendon and Spencer move together, towards each other, around each other. He doesn't know what all it means, but he sees it happening.

"Bring me another beer," Brendon whines. He's asking the whole crowd, a wide net with better odds, but the cooler sits next to Spencer's side of the ratty couch, and he's probably rolling his eyes--Shane can't tell in the dark--but he's also reaching down for a bottle. Spencer even pops it open, flicking the cap at Jon across the way, then drinking down half before he lets Brendon have it.

"That's OK," Brendon announces. "I like Spencer cooties."

Jon shoots the bottle cap back their way. It hits Ryan, who underhands it to Shane, who turns it over in his hand, back and forth between his fingers, looking for the next best target because Brendon and Spencer aren't paying attention to the game that's sprung up around them. They're not kissing, touching only as much as any friends on the same tiny couch would, but it looks different to Shane. It is different.

-

When he shakes himself out of his editing tunnel vision he goes to make coffee.

"Hey," Spencer raises a hand to high-five him as he enters the kitchen. He blinks as he raises a hand. The coffee looks like it's just finished. He rubs one eye, yawning, and wonders if he actually roused himself because he smelled delicious, fresh coffee. Spencer pours them both a cup. He loves Spencer.

"Hey." He clears his throat after he notices how rusty it sounds. "How long have I?" he points a thumb back over his shoulder, in the direction of the editing room.

Spencer shrugs. "I've only been here an hour."

"Oh, cool." That means he's been out of it a while. Spencer had been here when he started. If he'd gone then come back that means Shane's been working somewhere in the range of a lot of hours.

"We still on for that Miike marathon?" Shane nods, wondering if he's created a monster, as Spencer pours another cup of coffee. "Sweet." Spencer picks up both mugs, nods at him, then ambles in the direction of Brendon's room.

Shane finishes his coffee standing in the kitchen, staring at the backyard. He can't hear anything. It doesn't sound like Spencer and Brendon are getting up any time soon, he figures he might as well get the eighteen hours of sleep his eyes are telling him they need.

When he crawls into bed it only takes a few minutes for sweet bliss to claim him, despite the sunlight and the coffee.

He wakes and it's dark and he's not surprised. When he goes into the kitchen it's like déjà vu - Spencer, coffee, yawning - except Brendon's sitting on the counter, hair wet and grin huge.

"Shane, my man!" This time it's Brendon holding a hand up for a high-five. He complies, this time with more enthusiasm. "You on the good times train for tonight?" Shane takes Spencer's coffee, raises an eyebrow. "I'm hittin' da clubs, you know," Brendon purses his lips, ducks his head side to side.

"Depends," he drinks more of the coffee. Spencer steals the coffee back, drains it in one go, then refills it and hands it back to Shane. Shane watches, amused. "Where are we going?"

"Not me," Spencer shakes his head. His hair's a messy nest but his beard's trimmed neat, Shane sees no reason he couldn't go.

"What? Spence!" Brendon kicks Spencer lightly in the thigh. "C'mon."

"I'm going to go change," Shane excuses himself out of the conversation, feeling too much like he's intruding. It doesn't take long. When he's finished Brendon's alone in the kitchen. "Hey," he pokes his head in. "I'll drive?"

"You don't even know where we're going." Brendon has a shot glass in one hand, Dylan cradled under his other arm. There's a roughly cut lemon on the counter next to a bottle of tequila.

"Let me guess," he steps into the room, brings up a hand like a showgirl. "Somewhere on the strip?"

"Ha." Brendon pours another shot, one-handed, tips that back and grabs for a lemon wedge with a distracted air. "Yeah, OK, why not. It's still a party, right?"

Shane walks over to grab Dylan before she gets impatient and claws. "Bren," he takes the shotglass, fills himself one, tips it back. He doesn't actually know what to say.

Brendon slips under his shoulder before he puts the glass down, follows with him when he turns to lean against the counter. He turns toward Brendon and Brendon turns further into him, his lips parting as he looks up at Shane. He licks his lips and Shane knows that move, has seen that move, but can't help to lick his own in response.

"It's gonna be fun, right?" Brendon doesn't bat his eyelashes but it's close. Shane nods. Brendon smiles, a slow one, teasing. Shane grins back, bumping Brendon's hip with his own. Brendon bumps back, but not on his hip.

Brendon's balancing the line perfectly, Shane can see this. If he responds one way Brendon will raise the stakes, if he responds another it'll become a joke. He tries the third way, tries the way Brendon won't expect.

And he doesn't, Shane can tell. He opens under Shane's tongue, kisses him back expertly, but slowly. He can tell when Brendon catches up, when Brendon decides, and that's when he breaks it off, pulls Brendon in for a hug so they don't have to look in each other's eyes.

"That's not what you want," he rubs Brendon's back. Brendon shakes his head. He's trembling. Shane might be, too.

He gives them both another minute before he pulls back, lets go. Brendon has a fixed grin on his face, but not the bad one. "Are we doing this or are we doing this?" Brendon waggles his eyebrows.

"I'm driving," he declares. "You have another shot."

"This," Brendon points at him, snapping. "This is why you're my roommate."

Brendon has the money and the fame but he doesn't have the car. He wants the car. He wants the car, even if it makes him that guy.

He takes Spencer with him on his second round of test drives. He's been enjoying the ceremony of it, he won't lie, the careful give and take with the sales people, the coded language. If they don't know who he is he gets to fuck with them more than when they do know. Either way, he's driven the bulk of the sweetass tiny and fast cars on the market right now. He's happy.

"I can't fit into that car," Spencer objects at their first stop. Brendon reconsiders.

"No, you can, stop whining," but the sales dude gets fidgety about sending both of them out alone, without an escort. Brendon ends up going on another solo test drive, which makes him cranky. He still takes his time.

When he gets back Spencer is chatting with a different salesperson, sitting with his long legs stretching out of the exact model Brendon just took for a spin. "I like this," Spencer tells him. "Brian here just told me about all the features." Brendon looks at Brian. He decides he really doesn't need a BMW.

"I still want to drive the Audi again." He pops his sunglasses back on. Brian offers Spencer a hand out of the car when he has problems levering himself out. Brendon has to turn to hide his smirk.

Spencer doesn't argue about joining him on the next drive but the saleslady puts up a fuss. Brendon can tell she doesn't know who he is, probably thinks he's shopping with his parents' money or just fucking with her. He's ready to get his feathers ruffled when Spencer steps in. Brendon's not sure what he offers as collateral but soon enough they're out on the road, Spencer in the passenger's seat.

"What do you think?" he asks after they get on the highway. He'd specifically mentioned that he'd heard highway handling was very important, he just can't remember why or where he'd heard it.

"I like it so far." Spencer starts fidgeting with things he hadn't touched before. Everything works on the dash, Brendon's not surprised to see. Spencer starts adjusting his seat when Brendon gets off the highway. "There's more leg room here than I thought," Spencer's far enough back he can stretch his toes out.

Brendon nearly drives off the road when Spencer pulls the handle and falls all the way back. "What?" he turns to look, then jerks his eyes back to the road.

"Oh, wow," Spencer's voice almost echoes in the space. "Look at how far the seats go back."

Brendon laughs as he pulls into a gas station. Then he reconsiders and pulls around the back of the station. It's not the most deserted of places but it's better than anything else they've got. "You like the car, now?" he turns on the radio.

"Yes." Spencer's stretched out, leaning as far back as he can with his arms nearly touching the back window. Brendon admires the long line of his body, especially how it looks like it's on offer, all for him.

"Spence," he rubs Spencer's belly. Spencer's arms come flying down to cover and protect but Brendon never meant to tickle, laughs at Spencer's glare. "Sorry!" He holds his hands up, free and clear, trying to prove his innocence. "I was just going to say, I think I like this car."

"Yeah?" Spencer's hands are still laced over his stomach. It makes Brendon itch to touch.

"Yeah. Wanna break it in?" He tries to get his fingers to Spencer's buckle.

"You're not going to buy this exact one!" Spencer doesn't stop him, despite his false outrage. He shrugs. He could, if it's a problem.

"This is a tiny car." Spencer arches into his touch. "We should probably see if we can have fun in it before you buy it."

"I like how you think," he smiles as Spencer starts wriggling his way into the backseat. "I really doubt we'll have room back there, yo."

"You're limber. Where's your sense of adventure?" Spencer kicks him in the shoulder. "Sorry. I think I owe you a blowjob for that, right?"

Right, of course. He can't risk putting his own seat back, he'd probably hit Spencer's kneecaps. He shimmies his best shimmy but it's still awkward. Luckily, he doesn't need to show off for Spencer. And he's owed a blowjob.

There's really not enough room. He ends up on his knees, crouched over, and Spencer still doesn't have any room to work, but more than he would in any other position. Brendon laughs at the absurdity of it, one hand gripped tight in the back of the headrest.

"Do you think we can tip Brian?" he asks when he's done.

"Maybe," Spencer muses. He'd declined when Brendon had offered to try to switch places. Brendon understands why. "But not with a blowjob."

-

Spencer had needed space but it's awkward, coming back. He wishes he weren't dreading it but he is.

He knows Brendon's going to be slightly stand-offish and very jokey, that Ryan's going to be petulant to hide his fear that Spencer wouldn't come back and that Jon's going to high-five him and ask him low-key questions he doesn't actually want answers to. He knows his band and he loves them but goddamnit they're exhausting.

Which is why he'd needed time and space and he'd taken those, without double checking, without asking, without soothing and planning. He'd been impulsive and greedy and it had felt really awesome to be the person leaving other people to figure out the shit until right now, when he's steeling himself to go back in and explain.

"Why Spencer Smith, as I live and breathe," Shane holds up a fist. Spencer bumps him and smiles. Easing back into it, he can do this. "You OK, man?" Shane hasn't pointed the camera in his other hand anywhere near Spencer. He appreciates the gesture.

"I am fucking fantastic." Spencer means it, too. He just had the best damn vacation he's had in years.

"Cool," Shane turns to look down the hallway. "Seen the guys yet?"

"Nope," he adjusts the straps on his backpack. Shane peeks back down the hallway again. When he turns back to Spencer he has a serious expression. He pulls Spencer against the wall.

"I know what you go through with it all, believe me," Shane's whispering, fierce and fast. Spencer nods. Shane's been there for enough of it to get it. "Like, I really respect what you deal with and who you are." Shane grips his bicep, leans in closer. "But that really fucked with B's head. Please don't do that again." And then Shane's gone, back down the corridor.

Spencer's a little shaken, a little pissed at both himself and Shane and a little anxious to go in and see them, now he's been warned. Or possibly warned off. But when he walks in everything seems cool. His kit's not exactly how he left it but it is how he likes it.

Everything's cool, yeah, but because they're all high. Spencer wonders if he could find pull off wearing a DARE shirt every few days. Maybe make Zack wear one. When he asks everyone laughs and it's good which is better than cool.

Then they play and it's better than good, it's awesome. Spencer hadn't realized how much he'd missed it. He aches a bit after the first song, too long without playing and no stretching, but he loves it. He stretches out quickly, not hiding his grin. Brendon grins back at him and something clicks into place that's felt wrong for way too long.

It gets slightly awkward when they're done. Shane's long departed. Ryan comes over to give him a high five that turns into a hug and then Ryan's away, dragging Jon with him to some art something Spencer thinks they might have made up.

Which leaves him and Brendon and he's glad. He clicks the lock on the door, locking them in. Brendon looks over from where he's putting away guitars, tuning and tidying them. Spencer thinks he's been dawdling for the same reason Ryan and Jon left.

"Hey," he shoves his fingers in his pockets and walks over to Brendon.

"Hey," Brendon mimics his pose, probably unconsciously.

"I missed you." It's easy to say. It's the truth.

It makes Brendon's face light up.

"I missed you, too."

He thinks he should make the first move here. The ball's in his court since he called a timeout. Or something like that, he doesn't know the rules to this game.

All he does is make the start of a move toward Brendon and it's game on. He hunches down and Brendon tips up and it's hot like burning, Brendon's arms around his neck, his weight dragging them both against the wall.

They scrabble for each other and it's way more desperate than he normally lets himself be, than he ever lets himself be. He pins Brendon to the wall with his hips, holds him in place until Brendon just lifts himself into Spencer's arms, wraps his legs around Spencer and hoists himself up.

Spencer really enjoys having Brendon pinned there, enjoys it until his arms start to get tired and he wants more. He carries Brendon over to the drum riser and lowers Brendon down, not breaking contact. Brendon doesn't unlock his ankles from behind Spencer's lower back, keeps rutting into Spencer in the same rough pace they started.

Spencer's dizzy with the headiness of it. He knows they're not going to make it any further than this spot, this moment. He races Brendon to get them there, coming with Brendon's name on his lips and Brendon's repetition of his name in his ears. It's damning and forgiving and Spencer bites Brendon's lip as he comes, silencing them both.

-

Standing in front of the mirror, Brendon doesn't know what to do with himself anymore. No costumes to adjust, no make-up to do. They're not even doing anything with their hair anymore. Brendon scratches his scalp, not even sure the last time he washed it.

Jon and Spencer haven't even shaved since the cabin. The beard suits Jon--Brendon's already having a hard time seeing him without it. Spencer, though, it'll take some getting used to.

"You're really not going to shave?" Ryan says, plaintive, once last appeal to Spencer's better judgement. Ryan's just lucky Spencer's wearing real shoes today.

This is the new Panic at the Disco, minus one exclamation mark, and it was Ryan's idea, so he can't complain. More organic, he said, authentic. If it means Brendon gets to wear regular clothes, he's happy. He dresses it up a bit. The sheriff's badge was something Spencer found in a pawn store off the Strip. They weren't looking for anything in particular, killing time before studio time started. Brendon was trying out a banjo when Spencer reached over his shoulders to pin the star to his chest. He had obviously cleaned it up because it was shining when Brendon looked down.

Spencer's new tour uniform is vest, headband, t-shirt. Last night, in the hotel room, Brendon got to peel it off him, everything a little sweaty from the show. He's still wearing his shirts too tight, but ever since Spencer grew, stretched, really, it makes sense. It looks good. Brendon loves his arms and shoulders, but that slight pudge of belly is the best, and the shirts just show it off.

"I'm already dressed," Spencer explains to Ryan. Brendon daydreams undressing him again. "I can't shave now."

Jon nods beside him. "Exactly." He points. "Exactly. Just wouldn't make sense. He'd get hair over everything, Ryan, and you don't want that."

Ryan lets out a loud, dramatic sigh. He steps back to the vanity where Brendon's standing and adjusts his tie in the mirror. Brendon doesn't see anything wrong with it, but you never know with Ryan.

"I think you look very distinguished, Spence." He grins wide when Brendon says that.

The show is amazing, despite the lack of make-up. It was amazing last night, too, even though it was a whole new audience, a whole new place. Brendon doesn't know why Ryan's so worried. Well, he knows, but he doesn't get it. Even The Beatles left their matching suits behind eventually.

Back in the hotel, one more night before it's onto the bus, Spencer follows Brendon to his room. Last night, Brendon shared with Jon, but, obviously, he and Spencer have had a chat.

"Oh, God," Brendon whines. Spencer backs him up against a wall. He licks Brendon's neck. "You totally want to have sex right now, and, oh, you look so good, and, fuck." With hands on both sides of Spencer's face, Brendon pushes him away. "I'm exhausted."

"Are you serious?" Spencer narrows his eyes. He takes a step back and strips. Oh, God.

"I really need to sleep," Brendon says, his voice already starting to go. Glancing quick to the bathroom, Brendon realises he won't make it for a glass of water before Spencer catches him. Instead, he pulls Spencer in with his arms around his neck. "Get me some water?" he asks.

"OK, but get in that bed." Over his shoulder, Spencer shouts, "I'm not letting you out."

Brendon yanks his shirt off. He hears the dull thunk as the shirt--sheriff's badge still attached--hits the floor. Throwing the blanket down to join it, he falls into bed. He's splayed out, stretched as far as he can, feeling the good pull in his calves and his arms. And then everything's loose, his eyes fall close, and Brendon could sleep just like this.

A hand, so light, trailing up the inside of his leg, is the only thing keeping Brendon awake.

"You wanted water?" Spencer says. He kneels on the bed next to Brendon's hip, and his hand comes to rest low on Brendon's stomach.

He has to roll over to drink. It's awkward, especially when Brendon just got comfortable, but Spencer holds the cup, and Brendon holds his hand, and when Brendon peers up, Spencer is peering down at him. The lights are off, but some light pokes between the curtains.

"Oh, get down here. I'm gonna push you away again?" Of course he isn't. Brendon reaches up and uses Spencer's hair to pull him down on the bed. They fall in an unorganised pile, the cup tips the last of its water over onto the floor, Spencer tips over onto Brendon.

It's easier when your naked before you make it to the bed. It's just touching after that, rubbing, rutting. Brendon hooks his legs around Spencer, and they line up right. The friction warms their skin, and Spencer's beard is rubbing raw on Brendon's chest, across his shoulders, and, tomorrow, there will be a red spot on the side of his neck.

He wants to come, but it still feels so far away. "FYI," Brendon groans out. "If I fall asleep before you're done, it's not my fault. I warned you."

Spencer shoves up hard, but at such a nice angle, and Brendon cries out.

-

Brendon is always disgusting after shows. Spencer has a rule for after a show, a rule he calls the "No, Brendon, Get The Fuck Away From Me" rule. He tries to enforce it pretty strictly. Brendon sometimes ignores him but he knows that if he gives Brendon an inch he'll take a mile so he's staying strong. Spencer likes a good bout of sweaty sex now and again, sure, but he doesn't want to feel like he's fucking the creature from the swamp or lagoon or whatever.

"C'mon," Brendon pouts at him. "It's my birthday, surely we relax stupid rules on my birthday."

"Oohh, bad idea," Zack shakes his head.

"Very bad idea," he agrees. "Before the 'stupid rule' part I was considering making an exception." He's made exceptions before. Rarely, but he does, because sometimes a show is too good and Brendon is too appealing. It's a flaw he can live with. And if he offers Brendon a chance Brendon will work at it.

"Oh, yeah?" Brendon strikes a pose. "So birthday nights are possible exception nights?"

"Possibly," he unties his headband. There are people around, so many people. It was a good show and there's a party somewhere for Brendon's birthday but they have time. Not that he's sure he's going to relax his rule.

That's a fucking lie, he's definitely going to relax the rule. The rule has a ton of exceptions and sub-clauses and on a birthday night when they've played a show and Spencer's wearing a new pair of lucky shoes he wants to relax the rule.

Spencer knows he wants to fuck Brendon he just doesn't want to deal with finding an empty space and a condom and his life is hard. He sighs and snaps the tie between his hands and turns to Zack. Zack crosses his arms. He crosses his arms. Zack rolls his eyes and jerks his head, so Spencer follows, tugging on Brendon's arm where he's chatting with someone.

"That was my brother's wife," Brendon whispers as Zack opens a door for them. It's empty. Spencer'll take it.

"Yeah?" It's Brendon's birthday, he has a lot of family around. Spencer doesn't care about getting to know any of them, not when Brendon's family only shows up at shows now the band has money to go with their music.

"Yeah." Brendon hops up on the desk.

"Well, birthday boy," he snaps the tie between his hands again. "Have any requests?"

Brendon leans back on his hands. It's a coy pose. Spencer licks his lips. "Oh, wow, this is like a test I haven't prepared for."

"I'm sure you're a quick study." He flicks a practiced eye over Brendon's posture.

Brendon laughs, something nervous and small. "Are we really doing this here? Now?"

He bites the inside of his cheek, stopping himself from reaching out. "Only if you want to."

"I want to," Brendon sits up to pull his shirt off, scoots forward enough to spread his legs. "I really want to. I'm just surprised."

He steps in where he's invited. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, you're normally more work." Brendon smirks so he grabs under Brendon's knees, tips him back.

"I'll show you work," he unbuttons Brendon's jeans, pulls them off, tugging over one shoulder. Brendon kicks to help and almost kicks him in the chest. "No," he grabs Brendon's ankles, dropping his pants. "Keep 'em here," he plants Brendon's feet on the desk.

"Is that how we're doing this?" Brendon's voice is high, breathless.

"Happy birthday," says, leaning over.

He wants to fuck Brendon but he figures it can wait 'til they're back at the hotel. Brendon's vocal in the way only he can be, crying out at his first touch and his first lick and extra loud the first time he goes deep. Brendon scrabbles for his hair and Spencer lets him, a birthday treat. Brendon seems to sense he has extra latitude, grabs hard. Spencer tries swallowing in revenge.

"Oh fuck, oh, oh, you fucker." Brendon clenches tight, pulls his hair to the point his eyes water, so when he gags it's extra painful. Brendon lets go right away. He pulls off, keeps jerking him slowly with one hand.

"This isn't your birthday fuck," he says after he clears his throat. Then he goes for it again, lowering his head more carefully. They've watched enough porn, he really feels he should be able to figure this trick out.

"Ah!" Brendon doesn't so much grab his hair as clamps on to hold his head in place. Spencer can figure the why out, he's a smart boy, and it's over fast enough it doesn't bother him.

He stands up to look at Brendon, licking his lips. Brendon's flushed and obvious. Spencer helps him back into his jeans, one leg at a time, keeping him steady even when there's a knock at the door. Brendon hands him his tie with a kiss. He looks for a mirror while he ties it on.

"I can't find my shirt." Brendon's bent over behind the desk, groping at the floor.

"Seriously?" he joins Brendon to look.

It's really not there. "T-shirt gnomes?" Brendon wonders.

"I can go get you one," he offers.

"Naw," Brendon shakes his head. "My family's seen me without one before."

-

Brendon bops his way through "Mad as Rabbits," enjoying rehearsal far more than he expected considering the hangover he's been trying to shake off.

He grins at Jon and Jon grins back, mostly focused on his guitar, then he tried to rattle Ryan by hanging over his shoulder but Ryan rolls with it, laughing at him. The only person left to play with is Spencer but when he turns around to do so Spencer is deep in time-change concentration, his face in profile and his arms flying.

Brendon notices, not for the first time, that Spencer becomes someone entirely hotter when he's drumming. He also notices Spencer's arms. Of course Brendon knows Spencer has great arms but, damn. Brendon hasn't quality checked them in too long.

He finishes the song facing Spencer. There's no crowd, it's just them and a room and Zack and too few air conditioners, he doesn't need to do anything more than play. He can do that and oggle at the same time.

He suggests it to Spencer in the green room. It devolves into jokes about Spencer showing him his guns, which is about all they have time for before the interview they're supposed to do before the show.

But Spencer holds him to it. "Which is exactly what I wanted," he explains as Spencer crowds him up against the wall. They're still wet from their showers. Spencer's hair is fluffy, he must have washed it. "Do you think I need to stretch?"

"What exactly is it you think we're about to do here?" Spencer laughs into his ear. He's hunching down but Brendon still goes up onto his toes.

He demonstrates, bracing his arms over Spencer's and pushing his hips back against the wall. He wraps his legs around Spencer, hooking his ankles together. He waggles his eyebrows as he relaxes his abs, as more of his weight starts to bear down on Spencer.

"Oof," Spencer pushes him further into the wall but he stays strong, stays standing.

"Drummer thighs," he smiles, leaning in for a kiss. It's exactly what he wanted, he's between a rock and a hard place. He breaks off laughing when Spencer shifts enough for their dicks to rub together. "I'm between a wall and a hard place." It's funny enough Spencer drops him as they laugh together but that's OK, they have too many clothes on for Brendon's plans anyway.

"I thought we were checking the arms." Spencer's not often coy but he pulls his shirt off after he says it, grabbing at the neckline and pulling slowly. Brendon knows Spencer, knows he's careful with his clothing despite his occasional haphazard appearance. He bets Spencer's wincing inside at stretching the neckline of his t-shirt out. But he appreciates the effort. And the view.

"Damn, Spence, we need to get you in the sun." He covers the lines of Spencer's farmer's tan with his palms. "There, much better."

Spencer raises an eyebrow at him and starts unbuttoning his own jeans. Brendon kisses one pec, then the other, then starts working on his own clothes. He doesn't have much patience either.

He was joking but he does stretch, bending down to place his palms on the floor between them. He feels the stretch in his hamstrings, which surprises him. Clearly he needs to do this more often.

"Are you actually?" Spencer slaps his ass lightly. "You don't need to fucking stretch, what's wrong with you!"

He pops up, shaking his head. "You like me limber, shut up." Spencer smirks at him and nudges him over. He props his shoulders against the wall and raises his eyebrows. Spencer's move.

Spencer doesn't disappoint, not that Brendon expected him to. Two hands under his ass, hoisting him up, and he wraps his legs around. He has to scrabble to get his ankles to hook together this time and he wishes he had longer legs, not for the first time but definitely the time with the most pointed reason.

"You're good at this," he grunts, squeezing Spencer's waist with his thighs, enjoying the power of it.

"I pass inspection?" Spencer squeezes his ass in return.

It's not what he expected. He's good with getting fucked against a wall, and Spencer's certainly delivering on the attempt, but they can't get anything more going on than some friction.

"Uh," Brendon pushes against Spencer's shoulders, trying to raise himself back up the wall from where he's slipping.

"What?" Spencer hoists him up. He throws his arms around Spencer's shoulders, to keep himself closer to upright.

He pecks Spencer's lips, trying to soften the blow of his request. "Can we just do this on the bed? It's late." They're both hard but not aligned in any useful way. "We can do more quality assurance later, I promise." Spencer does him one more, carries him to the bed. "Nice," he falls back when Spencer lets him go.

-

When you just want to get off, doing it against a wall, standing up, trying to align parts that need to be aligned while also taking care not to drop the other person, it's just stupid. So when Brendon kisses him and says, "Can we just do this on the bed?" Spencer grins, cheers inside, then stumbles them forward.

"Better, right?" Brendon wraps his arms around Spencer, and there, right there, is a nice place to thrust.

It ends with Spencer's jeans halfway to his knees and Brendon's shirt stuck around his neck. So they rip off the rest of their filthy clothes, find things clean, but wrinkled to sleep in, and get under the covers.

"Get me some water, Bren."

He sighs before he gets up, but he's going to get up. Maybe Spencer sometimes takes it a little too far, but Brendon will drink half the bottle before he gets back to bed. Besides, Spencer carried that shit across the room.

"You want mineral water, fizzy water, or should I just fill a cup from the bathroom?" Brendon's crouched in front of the minibar, and he must of ripped into something already because he's talking with his mouth full.

"Fizzy," Spencer decides. "And let me have a bite of that."

It's chocolatey and peanutty, and Spencer takes three bites before Brendon steals it back.

"See the remote?" Brendon asks, mumbling again through his chocolate bar. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, he twists and turns, but comes up with nothing.

"I think I'm lying on it." The remote is under a pillow, and Spencer probably slept on it this afternoon, too.

They checked into the hotel early that morning, nearly falling off the bus, and on each other, tired from the overnight drive. Brendon watched cartoons while Spencer sat in the bath for an hour. They got enough sleep to get them through the interviews and the show, but Spencer feels like he hasn't been on top of anything since they got into town.

Brendon turns the TV on now and finds cartoons, even at 3 in the morning. He grabs a pillow and curls up around it and Spencer's legs to watch. Spencer closes his eyes to the bright, fast colours. The sound is enough for him right now.

He's lulled himself into quiet, into deep, slow breaths with a hand softly petting Brendon's head. He shaved it off again, himself, in the bus bathroom with Zack standing outside and laughing. There are patches, tufts longer than the rest, and Spencer's fingers come back to them again and again, prickling on his skin.

They might have laid there until morning, but someone knocks at the door, and Brendon bounds up to let them in without asking a name or what the hell they think they're doing at this time of night.

"Go away, Ryan!" Spencer shouts, over the TV, because he knows. It's obvious. Ryan is obvious, and Jon is right there behind him.

"We brought food," Jon says, like that makes it OK. He drops a bag of boxes on the bed, and he pushes at Spencer until Spencer rolls over to give him a space to sit. He steals the pillow so Spencer steals his lap. Brendon returns to find his spot at Spencer's feet again, but Ryan stays at the door. He has food, too, Chinese from the looks and smells of what Jon's pulling out.

"Oh, c'mon." Spencer peers around Jon and stares until Ryan relents. "Don't just stand there."

"Then don't yell at him, Spencer." Brendon grins and bites his knee, ducking out of the way before Spencer can reach him for a smack. The lemon chicken smells amazing, anyway. Maybe he'll just lay here and let Brendon and Jon feed him.

"Where are the chopsticks, Walker? Don't tell me you only got forks." Jon always starts with the chopsticks, he tries. Then Spencer laughs when he uses his fingers, hungry and frustrated. He'll start with the chopsticks tonight, too, but the forks are a smart backup.

"I've got them," Ryan says, coming around the bed with the other bag. He also has something with black beans, Spencer can smell. "Settle down."

"So what's up with you?" Spencer asks.

Ryan shrugs one shoulder, his scarf fluttering up, then back down. "I just had to be sure you two weren't naked in here."

"Shut up, Ross, you love it." Brendon tackles him for the food.

Getting comfortable on the bed isn't hard. They do it all the time. Ryan sits with his legs crossed, knees poking into Spencer's thigh. Jon kicks off his flip flops when Spencer gives him a look and burrows his feet under the covers. Spencer tucks into Jon's side, eating from Jon's box as well as his own.

Brendon lays at the foot of the bed, across them all, but with one hand resting on Spencer's ankle, and it doesn't move all night.

-

His phone rings while Brendon's blowing him. And he feels like the biggest douche in the world but he sees its Haley so he knows he needs to answer it. He's an ass for even checking but he and Haley have been playing phone tags for weeks so he'd been keeping it close.

"Bren," he cups Brendon's jaw. "I gotta answer this."

Brendon mouth hangs open after he pulls off. "Are you kidding me?"

He says I'm sorry silently, making a face as he answers the phone. Brendon flips him off and but stays between his knees.

If Haley just wanted to chat he could get off the phone pretty quickly but she wants to talk about the plans for joining him for a few nights on this tour. There's something about her mom and something about school and he knows in the end they're just going to email most of the details but he also wants to talk to her, hasn't heard her voice in too long.

Brendon doesn't leave but he does turn so he's curled up between Spencer's legs, instead of facing him. It gets a little easier, he's a little more able to focus. He cups his dick up against his stomach, pressing down. It feels good. If Brendon weren't here he could probably jerk off talking to Haley. If it happened now it'd be something closer to a disjointed threesome, with him the joint that could get bent out of place.

And he's never wanted that, never fantasized about that, having both of them in his bed. They're like two things he loves the taste of but knows wouldn't taste good together, like chocolate and steak.

No, he's going to be an asshole, but they all know the way he's this kind of greedy, this kind of an ass. It works, so far. He thinks. He's had all the conversations he thinks he needs to have with both of them. Sometimes it's exhausting.

Brendon crawls over his legs far enough to get the TV remote then drops back down. He cuddles close to Spencer's leg and starts rapid-flipping through channels. Spencer thinks he might be angry. But he can't deal with that til he's off the phone with Haley so he runs his fingers through Brendon's hair, trying to soothe him.

Brendon doesn't move away from his touch but he doesn't move into it either.

He wonders how fucked in the head he must be. Or possibly how un-fucked, since it works and no one makes a big deal out of it and no one falls apart and freaks out and ends up burning guitars alive. He's not rushing through his conversation with his girlfriend so he can get back to getting a blowjob from his Brendon and he's not going to secretly torture himself about any of this.

"See you soon," he says to end the call, and Haley blows him fake kisses over the phone. He smiles as he ends the call. "Sorry for being that type of douche," he pulls Brendon's chin up gently, so Brendon can look at him.

Brendon shrugs, looks at him briefly before bringing his chin back down. It's too soft a gesture to knock his hand away so he goes back to Brendon's hair. "You're not getting that blowjob now," Brendon says but it's not angry, and Spencer does have to acknowledge he killed the mood.

"That's cool." He continues playing with Brendon's hair as they flip through Brendon's body language is relaxed but Brendon's always been good at lying with his body. "What can I do for you?"

"Hmmmmm," Brendon stretches it out, looking back up at him. Brendon could ask for anything right now. He wouldn't give him something he wouldn't anyway, but Brendon can at least ask. "How long can you stay hard?"

He raises an eyebrow. He knows Brendon can still see his erection, but more than that knows Brendon knows how long he can last. Brendon smiles up at him and it's a devious smile. He likes it.

"You have a plan, I take it," he says as Brendon crawls up him.

"Yup." Brendon winks as he reaches for a condom. Spencer'd be OK with getting fucked, it's been a while, but Brendon rolls it down over his very interested dick.

Brendon doesn't let him in on the plan, just moves him and directs him where he's supposed to go. He figures enough of it out, gives himself a pillow behind his back when he's instructed to sit up straight against the headboard.

Brendon hands him the remote before he straddles him, facing the television. "You want to fuck and watch Family Guy?" he asks. Brendon slaps his hand away from where he'd been guiding his dick in. "What, I was trying to help." Brendon doesn't need his help, slides down smoothly and leans back. "Oh, you want me to be your giant pillow while you watch television."

"I could get a pillow and a dildo." Brendon's head lolls back on his shoulder. Spencer runs his hands up and down Brendon's thighs, not quite believing that he's not allowed to move. "But this is better, for now."

-

"You think they can see us from here?" Spencer leans over the balcony, looking down to where fans have lined up around the hotel. His action is greeted by a chorus of screaming girl-pitched-voices.

"Yeah, I think they can see us up here." He leans back against the sliding glass door. "Just a hunch." Spencer grins at him, a secretly pleased grin. Brendon doesn't know for sure if he's secretly pleased at their fans circling the hotel or if he's secretly pleased because he's working on a plan to fuck with them, but, well, Brendon can guess.

"Hmm," Spencer turns back around, sticks one hand, flattened palm facing down, out over the ledge. The screaming starts again. "I wonder what they'd do for you instead of me."

"I don't think I need to find out." He ducks back in to their room, heads for the mini-bar.

The beers are cold and he'd be happy to just watch some TV before they have to head back down to the venue, maybe take a nap if he's lucky. He's feeling tired. He's been tired of touring before, tired of his bandmates and tired of the road and tired of performing the same damn songs, but this time it really is that he's straight up weary. He never turns down a chance to party after a show.It's starting to catch up with him.

"I'm getting old," he tells the mini fridge.

He's bent over, reaching for the limes he spies hiding in the back, when Spencer's hands settle on his hips. "I'm not going to dignify that with a reply." Spencer's completely unsubtle with rubbing up against his ass. He laughs as he stands up.

"You're just going to change the subject?" He steps closer to the mini-bar, to pop the cap off his beer. Spencer steps with him.

"Were we talking? I don't think so." Brendon tries passing Spencer a beer but Spencer doesn't take his hands off of him. It's not that Brendon's not into it, it's just that Spencer wants it, quickly and obviously, which means Spencer wants something. Brendon has leverage, here.

"Hmm," he leans back into Spencer, rests his head in the dip between Spencer's collarbone and his neck. "What were we doing, then?" He tips his beer back as he drinks until the bottle chinks against Spencer's chin. Spencer's hold tightens on his hips. He's clearly wishing he could bat the bottle away.

Brendon's amused. "I was thinking," Spencer takes a step back, keeping his grip on Brendon's hips. Brendon waits until he'd fall before stepping with Spencer, makes Spencer drag him along. "I was thinking," Spencer takes another step. "We could spend some time on the balcony."

He digs his heels in when Spencer tries to pull him another step. "Spence, that's not a good idea."

"It's a great idea," Spencer pulls him harder. He's determined.

"I don't," he turns around, breaking Spencer's hold. "I don't think it's a good idea. They're right down there," he gestures, shaking his head.

"Yeah, that's part of the fun." Spencer smiles at him, the same smile Brendon should have recognzied was trouble from earlier.

"I don't," he shrugs, not knowing what else to add.

"Please." Spencer takes his hand, takes another step toward the door, tugs gently. Spencer's asking, not begging or bargaining. If he were demanding Brendon would say no.

"You have some weird kinks, Smith." He takes a step closer to Spencer, not agreeing, not quite yet.

"Naw, it's a classic," Spencer takes another step back, tugs gently on his hand. "Doing it again the sliding door? It's almost clichéd."

He relaxes. Against the door is far enough from the balcony. Spencer sees it, he can tell. He drops Brendon's hand to start working on his belt. Brendon laughs but lets Spencer, lets Spencer do the work of unwrapping him.

Spencer's much more careful with Brendon's clothes than with his own, to Brendon's amusement. He doesn't wait, heads outside. It's warm, warm enough to fuck outside, something he hadn't bothered noting earlier.

He clings to the door after Spencer steps out. He wouldn't step near that ledge to save his life. The last thing in the world he wants is for fans to see him as he's getting fucked, but Spencer strolls up and waves a hand out. The screams rise again and Brendon closes his eyes. He can't believe they're doing this.

"Spencer," he says, but Spencer's there, kissing him before Brendon's done calling for him. "OK," he says into the kiss. He can do this, he can.

"Stop worrying," Spencer says when he pulls back to turn Brendon around. "It's my ass on display here."

For the first time Brendon realizes that there are other buildings tall enough to see them. He keeps his hands on the glass but turns to look. There's nothing too close, nothing too dangerous, but. Jesus. He shivers, wondering how they must look, Spencer looming over him as he grips the glass.

-

Spencer and Zack are on a horror movie kick, have been for a few weeks. Brendon enjoys a good horror movie, sure, but not eight in a row, even when they need to kill nearly a thousand miles in a day, even when there are theme snacks.

He hovers by the door to the back lounge, where Ryan and Jon are locked away with the vaporizer and four guitars. There's a soft, regular strumming but nothing much else. He decides to claim the bunk area. Right now they can be his, all his. He stands in the middle, considering, then rolls easily into Spencer's instead of crawling up into his own.

Spencer's smells good. Better than his. At this point in the tour it should smell like boy and sweat and stale, like his does. He knows it's kind of creepy but he turns his head into Spencer's pillow as he undoes his jeans. He's too wired to sleep, he might as well. Spencer has the good lotion.

It takes him a while to text jacking off in yr bunk one-handed, but he does, then he gets down to jerking himself off now he's hard. He's not going to lie, he'd like Spencer to join him, but if he doesn't Brendon can show himself a pretty good time.

His phone buzzes right after he decides to slow it down, make it last. Maybe he wants Spencer to be with him, maybe he's willing to wait for Spencer. Spencer likes making him wait but Spencer's also worth it. wait for me, we're almost done with friday he reads, and laughs to himself. Spencer likes making him wait.

He can't not jerk off after he's started, that would just be unnatural and wrong, but he can slow down and try to wait for Spencer, since Spencer's asked.

Spencer hollers as he opens the door to the front lounge. "If you've jizzed all over my bunk it's no longer my bunk. It's your bunk." Brendon's glad he has no shame so he can yell back.

"Haven't today. Gimme five."

Spencer pulls back the curtain. "Five? I can go back, Zack got his hands on Night Gallery."

Brendon doesn't say a word. He has one arm behind his head, one hand on his cock. He knows he looks good. Spencer's not going away.

"Yeah, OK." Spencer's watching his hand as he speeds up. He arches, making it a better show. Spencer's gaze shifts, then his hand follows, pushing Brendon's shirt up past his nipples.

"Cold," he whines. Spencer pinches his nipple. "That doesn't help." He stops, curling his dick up against his stomach. "Get in and warm me up, that's enough of a peep show."

Spencer huffs but unzips and tries to crawl in. There's never enough room in the bunks, it's never comfortable, but he's not going to let Spencer just stand there and watch him.

"Shove over," Spencer pokes his hip. Brendon turns on his side. As soon as he can he throws his leg over Spencer's.

"Better this way," he throws an arm over Spencer as well, pulls him in, pulls him close to keep him from falling out of the bunk.

"Don't fucking lie," Spencer pushes him in further, until he's wedged against the wall with Spencer full-flush against him, hard and pressing in where Brendon's letting him. He gasps when Spencer hitches his leg up higher, forcing him to curl it around and open up. Spencer kisses him before the gasp has died and it's an excellent and scratchy kiss. He's been wanting one for a while now, and this one is sweet and sexy and just what he was hoping for.

He threads his fingers into Spencer's greasy tour hair, scratches and tugs. Spencer pinches his nipple in return and, wow, it really looks like they're not going to get any further than rutting, here. That's OK, he has the sweet curve of Spencer's belly to rut against.

"Mmm, beard burn," he gasps when he pulls back. Spencer's beard is soft, now that it's long, but still scratchy enough it can leave marks. They know, they've tried.

"C'mon, Zack won't wait forever." Spencer hitches his thigh up again.

"No, no, what?" he shudders, stilling. "Fuck, no, I'm so much further away from coming now." Spencer laughs hoarsely, thrusting into him faster. "Oh god, you owe me."

"Yeah, yeah," Spencer bites his ear, which is completely unfair. Spencer knows what that does to him.

Spencer comes first which is good for Brendon, he likes it slicker, and he likes it when Spencer's gasping and trembling in his arms. Spencer doesn't speak again, thank god. If he mentioned Zack again Brendon would have to think long and hard on his revenge.

"Mmm, afterglow," Spencer murmurs when they're both calmed down. Brendon laughs, not just dutifully.

"Fucking glad I chose your bunk," he whispers when Spencer rolls out to step back into his jeans.

-

Brendon sleeps there, in Spencer's bunk, in the smell of them both, together. He dreams about Spencer fucking him in a hockey mask and wakes up sweatier than when he fell asleep.

All the curtains are pulled when Brendon flops out of the bunk. It doesn't feel early, but, then, last night didn't feel late. That's how it is on tour.

Jon is up and mostly awake when Brendon steps into the kitchen. He's the only one. He's in his sweatpants and his flip flops, but wearing one of Ryan's vests and no shirt.

"Lookin' good, Mister Walker."

He passes Brendon one of the mugs he was preparing. Probably Ryan's coffee. They both like it with lots of cream and sugar. Jon drinks his own black, but never begrudges anyone their preference. Spencer, on the other hand, is a coffee snob. He won't even drink from Brendon's cup, not even when he's dying for it.

Brendon sips and nods, and, pleased with himself, Jon reaches back for another mug to make another coffee for Ryan.

"You got another one of those for Spencer?"

"We had our coffee outside," Jon explains, "before you two were even up."

With his mug in hand, Brendon gestures out there, in the direction of what he thinks he remembers is the front of the bus. They're here a couple of days, playing back-to-back shows, then a TV appearance, and Zack set up fake grass and lawn chairs in the parking lot under the tour bus awning. Ryan keeps saying how they should have a bonfire, and Zack keeps pointedly ignoring him.

Jon nods him away, and when Brendon steps down off the bus, Spencer is there, leaning back on a precarious plastic lawn chair, feet propped up on the back of another. His coffee mug hangs empty from one hand, and his eyes are closed. Spencer has managed, in this concrete city, to make his own little paradise.

Brendon steps forward, quiet, looking to steal just a tiny piece. He's skinny; he doesn't need a lot of room in Spencer's world.

"Is that coffee?" Spencer asks. He doesn't even open his eyes. Brendon is impressed. "Or is that just sugar?"

"It's both," Brendon tells him. He grabs another chair and puts his feet up next to Spencer's. "That's what makes it great."

"That's what makes it yours." He holds up his own mug, even though it's empty. "I'll be over here."

"Or we could be back in your bunk."

Spencer hums, "We could." They're close enough that when Spencer turns his head to look at Brendon--finally--his nose brushes Brendon's cheek. They're close enough that when Brendon tilts his mouth up and towards Spencer for a kiss, he could call it happenstance. But it's not.

The bitter bite of coffee tastes different on Spencer's tongue. It tastes better when it comes with Spencer, quiet and warm this morning, turning and turning in his lawn chair until their legs are tangled, their mugs are forgotten, and Brendon's hard enough that he doesn't care if they ever make it back to the bunks.

"No," Spencer says. He says it around Brendon's tongue. "More room. Think about what we can do with more room."

Brendon laughs, dragging them up, thankfully, without tripping. Spencer leans heavily on his shoulder for balance. "Think about what we can do when 'more room' means more than a cramped bunk."

"It's OK." Spencer lets himself be led back onto the bus. Ryan's in the kitchen now, wearing a too-big t-shirt. When they spot him, Spencer switches sides, grabbing Brendon's other hand and whispering into his other ear. "There's always enough room for a blowjob."

"What?" Ryan asks, and Brendon has to laugh. If he doesn't laugh, he's going to take Spencer against the counter, and Ryan doesn't want to see that, either.

Slipping away, back to the bunks, is easy. Ryan doesn't pay a lot of attention is it's not about him. Brendon gets up into the bunk first, pressing himself against the wall to let Spencer squeeze in. It always is a squeeze, but it's the good kind. It's the kind that has Spencer's hand on Brendon's hip and Brendon's nose in Spencer's hair, and the things that leads to are exactly what he wants.

Like that blowjob promised him. It doesn't take long for Spencer to get down to work, shoving Brendon's pants down, and sucking him in. More than the coffee or falling out of bed, it wakes Brendon up. It takes him back to last night, and it's better than last night.

"You do that so good, so good." Brendon bashes his hand against the roof, closer than he expected, always. But then he gets it into Spencer's hair, clenches his fingers tight instead of saying anything more. He doesn't know what more he could say that would mean as much as this touch, this moment, this place where it's just the two of them.

-

Spencer wants to smack Brendon upside the head. It's not an unusual feeling, not really, but this time he wants to do it out of what he's pretty sure is a misguided sense of pity. It's just that Brendon looks so sad and so small and he never looks that way. Which means Spencer should want to comfort him except they're at Brendon's cousin's wedding, so comforting would look something like a slap upside the head, he thinks.

Also, Brendon's looking sad is like blood in the water, with all his relatives circling round. Spencer really just wants Brendon to have a sense of self preservation.

He takes a sip of his iced tea and grimaces. Fucking chum in the water and he can't have one goddamn drink. He snorts into his glass after he thinks it.

Brendon retreats to where he's trying to blend in with the shrubbery after someone pinches him on the cheeks and shakes his hand. Brendon's a little wild eyed, Spencer doesn't like it.

"Please tell me you brought a flask," Brendon grabs the glass out of his hand. Spencer shakes his head slowly but remembers there might be a joint in the glove compartment of his car. He grabs Brendon's hand and drags him through the house without a word. He doesn't feel like playing nice, not when no one talked to him at the reception. He's a nice guy, he has manners, he knows rudeness when he feels it.

"Not to say I would have wanted to talk to them," he explains to Brendon in the car, waving the joint to make a point. Brendon nods, his eyes tracking Spencer's hand. "But that's pretty rude for a wedding! I'm your guest, I'm a guest." Brendon grabs the joint out of his hand when he almost ashes on himself.

"It's because you weren't at the Temple," Brendon says it without exhaling, holding in the smoke longer than he normally does. "Which means you're a stranger." Spencer leans over to kiss him as he starts leaking smoke. Brendon give him tongue and the shotgun smoothly. "Not Mormon," Brendon keeps talking so he kisses him again.

Spencer plans to kiss Brendon until the weed kicks in, until he stops tapping his knuckles against his knees and restlessly reaching to adjust the temperature control, but he realizes he can't do so if the joint burns down in Brendon's fingers.

"Inhale," he instructs, pulling back. Brendon sits up straight and pulls in a deep breath through his nose, exhaling through his mouth. Spencer rolls his eyes and grabs the joint, inhaling for the both of them. Brendon gives a short laugh of realization as Spencer leans in to share the hit. The tightness is gone from his eyes, Spencer will take it as success. For now.

He does it again. They're smoking quickly, maybe too quickly, but he grows heady with the power of pulling in the smoke, giving it to Brendon with his lips and his tongue. Brendon sags gently into the bucket seat, doesn't move between sets except to pull Spencer in by his hair.

He sucks down the last hit quickly and turns to Brendon quickly, almost frantically. His skin is tingling, especially his lips. He wants to make sure he gives Brendon the best of the last, the tingling on his lips and the smoke to drive away the blood in the water.

"My brain isn't making sense," he tells Brendon when he has to stop to drop the roach in the ash tray.

"Do brains ever make sense?" Brendon blinks slowly at him, deliberately. "God, can I blow you?"

And with that one question the cost of tinting his windows is completely and magically justified. "Is that even a question?" he goes for his belt before Brendon can try.

Brendon never gives bad blowjobs, not now after years of practice and an obvious sense of pride in every good one he gives, but some are better than others. If he weren't high as a kite he'd probably rate this one lower on the scale but he is and Brendon is and Brendon is folded in half in the front seat of his car.

Spencer scratches his nails through the short hairs at the back of Brendon's neck and Brendon groans around his dick and it's almost too much and then it is too much and then Brendon's kissing him, hot and desperate, too sloppy to be anything but leftovers.

"Damn," he gasps. "Do we really have to go back?" He's not sure he can keep his composure, even around Brendon's relatives.

"What?" Brendon blinks slowly at him again, one hand cupping the bulge in his jeans. "Fuck no, that was just to get us home."

"Right," he throws the car into gear. "Good plan."

-

last day in the old hizouse :(( Shane texts him sometime around 3am. Spencer supposes it could be considered the last day, but so could yesterday and also tomorrow. He shakes his head at himself and puts down the pipe.

broke into the old apartment he responds. He never saw Shane's space before he and Brendon started living together but it's a good quote. Maybe not terribly appropriate, though, so he tries again. there's no place like home. Movies are more Shane's style anyway.

He plans to finish his movie and go to sleep but Shane keeps texting, increasingly obscure quotes Spencer starts googling, until he realizes the sky outside is lighter and that he might as well just go over there. He can sleep on their couch until the movers arrive.

All the lights are on. The house looks inappropriately awake and chipper on its quiet street. Fitting, Spencer supposes as he locks up. Like owner, like house.

From what he remembers the movers are supposed to do everything, pack and move, but there are open, half-empty boxes lining the front hallway.

"Guys?" he calls out. He gets Dylan, taking a running leap at him. "Down," he tries, with the hand gesture he uses with his dogs. Brendon and Shane never trained Dylan, though, so she still takes a flying run at him. "Seriously!" he calls down the hall. "I know you're awake."

He hears the racket of someone rushing up from the basement and then Brendon bursts into the room. "Hey!" he reaches out for a high-five. Spencer gives him one across his body, across Dylan. "I finished packing the instruments."

Spencer nods seriously. That makes more sense. He'd want to pack his kits carefully, he understands. He yawns. He maybe should have slept.

"Want to grab some breakfast?" He waves a hand around the room. "This looks," Brendon starts laughing before he finishes the sentence. "Good?" The room's a mess. Brendon's lucky he has the money to make someone else move his shit.

"You didn't bring breakfast?" Shane wanders into the room. Spencer vaguely remembers his last text had said something about McDonald's probably opening soon.

"I'm only here for moral support?" Dylan scrabbles under his arm when Shane appears. He doesn't quite toss her at him but it's close.

"And to look pretty," Brendon flashes a grin at him. "Did you sleep at all?"

He shrugs. "It's moving day."

Shane and Brendon share a glance. "Yeeeeah," Shane stretches it out.

"They're not coming until, like, noon, man," Brendon scratches at the back of his head. Spencer bites his lip. He's maybe a little tired, yeah.

"Breakfast on me, guys," Shane and Brendon do a Dylan-for-keys exchange.

"We cleaned out the kitchen," Brendon explains. "No more food, not even a granola bar."

"No more liquor?" Spencer wanders to the kitchen to investigate. The kitchen really is empty. No more liquor, no more milk. The fridge is empty except for a box of baking soda. "Wow," he opens the freezer. There's a lot of ice but nothing else. Brendon and Shane are condiment hoarders; he wonders what they did with all of them.

"Did you really want to drink at six in the morning?" Brendon's sitting on the counter.

"No," he hops up next to Brendon. "It just makes it real, I guess, to see the kitchen empty." Kitchens are the heart of a home, he thinks. He doesn't know what he'd do if he couldn't go and hang out in his mom's kitchen every once in a while. "It's all," he makes a hand gesture. "Changing."

Brendon's grinning at him. He can't read the grin. "What?"

"Are you sentimental for my house?" Brendon elbows him lightly. "Before I've even left it? That's so adorable."

He shrugs. Dylan starts licking his hand. He turns it over after she fully bathes the back of it, to give her more salty goodness. "You were so proud of this house," he says, after Brendon puts his head on Spencer's shoulder.

"I'm still proud of this house," Brendon says into his armpit. "And I'll be proud of the next one."

Everything's kind of blurry in his head, from the lack of sleep and from packing his own house. "Can we nap before the movers come?"

"One last nap," Brendon scoots closer to him on the counter, pushing Dylan down. He slings one leg over Spencer's. "You know this bed is coming with me, right?"

"I would hope so." He pulls Brendon closer. "Beds are supposed to last longer than a year." He stops to think about it. "Even yours."

Brendon pulls the neck of his t-shirt down with his teeth. "We could have one last fuck, too."

"I dunno," he pulls Brendon away from his shirt. "What about breakfast?"

"We'll eat it in bed," Brendon pulls him off the counter.

-

They get into bed, burrow into the nest of sheets and duvet and and pillows. The mattress is bare, and the pillows have no pillowcases. It's like Brendon stripped the bed, then got distracted. Or maybe he was waiting for Spencer to come over. One last nap.

It's six in the morning, but they don't nap. That's not what bed's are for, Brendon says.

"Yeah? What are they for?" Spencer rolls and rolls until his legs are tangled and Brendon is on top. There are a hundred layers of fabric between them, but, he swears, he can still feel how much Brendon wants this.

"Seeeex," Brendon says, stretching the word until it doesn't mean anything anymore. It doesn't mean sex anymore, so Brendon uses his hands in Spencer's hair to say the same thing. He thrusts his knee up between Spencer's legs, giving him a hard place to rut against, soft, too, through the sheets.

They both laugh at how silly it is, groping for skin and trying not to fall off the bed.

"Stop, stop, stop," Spencer gasps, turning away. He feels, suddenly, too abruptly, Brendon jump off.

"What? Did I hurt you?" He's kneeling on the bed, right at the edge, and he looks worried. Spencer reaches out to touch the closest piece of skin he can. "Don't scare me like that, asshole," Brendon says, and he smacks Spencer's hand.

"I wasn't ready to come," Spencer pouts. He pushes himself up and leans against the headboard. The sheets fall all around him. They're still dressed. "We're still dressed, Brendon."

"OK." Instead of getting rid of his own shirt, Brendon yanks on Spencer's. Then Spencer's shorts, and he taps Spencer's hip to get his underwear off. "Better?"

"And you?" Now he feels silly lying naked. And he's still hard. Spencer covers his erection with one hand, but that feels too good, and it quickly turns into stroking himself while he watches Brendon get undressed.

Brendon's eyebrow go up when he pulls his shirt off and gets a look at what Spencer's doing. Teasing, just a bit, Spencer pushes his hips up, right where Brendon can't help but look.

"Stop it," Brendon whines. "I'm never gonna want to leave this house, let alone this bed." He flops next to Spencer, and when he doesn't do anything more than that, when he doesn't touch, Spencer know he's not supposed to stop. He's supposed to touch himself, get himself off, and Brendon's going to watch.

"It feels good, right?" Spencer nods. Brendon tucks himself in close and keeps talking. "It looks like it feels good. You don't have to say anything." His breath is wet on Spencer's neck. "When you're ready, I'll be right here."

He could keep this up all day. Spencer could, and does, zone out on the repetition, the quick pink of the tip as it disappears, reappears. There's enough wet now to make everything feel good, but, oh, Brendon's mouth would be nice. Just a lick. Spencer lets out a grunt, his hips buck, almost without his permission, and he forces himself to slow down.

They could keep this up all day, in the nest of sun-warmed sheets, and Brendon giving in and laying a hand on Spencer's chest, right over his heart beating fast. They don't have all day, though. The movers are here at noon, and they need to be done before then. But this is the last time. The last time in Brendon's house, so proud, his house and all the things they've done here.

Brendon gets more noises out of Spencer when he brushes his nipples, pinches them to make Spencer cry out. "Say my name," he whispers in Spencer's ear, and that makes Spencer laugh. He's doing the work, but Brendon wants the credit.

"Blow me," Spencer grinds out, request or insult, he doesn't know anymore.

"Uh uh. You're doing this one alone."

Of course, Spencer could come right now. He knows how to do this. Years of being stuck in hotels, tour buses, cabins in woods have taught Spencer the art of quick and silent masturbation. Just enough to get the job done. He was hoping for a little more this morning. He was hoping for Brendon.

"But you're doing it so good, Spence." Finally, finally, Brendon sneaks his hand down to wrap around Spencer's, wrapped around his cock. Their fingers slide together, open, then Brendon's touching him, too. It feels completely different. The shock of it is almost enough to make him come. "A little bit longer?" Brendon asks.

Spencer nods, his eyes already closed because he can't watch, so he misses Brendon coming at him for a kiss. The first touch of their lips is a shock, but Spencer catches up quick, and the tongue isn't a surprise.

When Spencer hits his climax, he doesn't notice, too caught up in sensation. His skin is tingling, and everything feels touched by the sun. He lets go. And Brendon takes over.

When Spencer opens his mouth, he says Brendon's name. It's good, and it's the last time in this house, but they're bringing the bed. Brendon deserves the credit for that one. Spencer will get the next.

The dogs are asleep by the end of the first movie, warm and heavy, curled around Spencer's bare feet. By the end of the second, Brendon is snuffling and snoring, too, head in Spencer's lap, nose turned into his belly.

It was Brendon's idea to do all three Godfathers in a row, but they didn't get started until well after dinner. They powered through Part One and two bowls of popcorn. They make out a little during the credits, then Brendon pulls Spencer down on the couch again once he's put on Part Two. But it's already past midnight, and it's not long after that Brendon settles in, rubbing his cheek against the fabric of Spencer's jeans, rubbing until Spencer lays a hand on Brendon's head to still him. It's what Brendon wants, obviously, because he goes quiet after that.

Spencer's debating Part Three or bed, or maybe just twisting around, getting them both comfortable, and sleeping right here on the couch.

"No, no," Brendon groans, eyes still squeezed closed as Spencer tries to pull his legs and feet out from under his sleeping brood. "We're not done." Brendon blinks up from the couch, smiling, his lips still shiny with butter and salty when Spencer kisses him.

"You wanna finish in bed?" He reaches down to scratch Boba's exposed belly and settle him back to sleep.

"The movie, Spence. Not finished with the movie."

"All right," he concedes. "But you're the one who wanted to surf tomorrow."

Brendon hums, closing in on a purr, when Spencer reaches across to scratch his belly now. His shirt had pulled up when he stretched, and Spencer likes the look of all that skin, tanned deep gold like California itself.

"Then I guess we need coffee," Brendon decides, and he pulls away from Spencer's hand, rolls away from the couch, and disappears somewhere in the direction of the kitchen.

Spencer puts on the next movie.

He loses track of on-screen deaths and cups of coffee, but they still fall asleep before Spencer remembers seeing the closing credits. He doesn't remember when Brendon leaves, either. The dogs are there, barking and yapping in Spencer's face. They're telling him, wake up, open the doors, let us out, and let the world in.

Standing in the doorway, not in, not out, Spencer watches the dogs run and play. He can't see the ocean from here, just more houses and fewer trees, but he bets Brendon's out there already. Brendon surfs like all desert kids do, like he'll never have enough time to make up for when he couldn't. It's not that Brendon's particularly good on his board. He's in the water more often that he's standing tall or crouching low underneath the whitewater curl.

Spencer watches him sometimes, from a high-up perch on the beach where the view is better, clearer without the crowds gathered at the waterline. He steals Shane's camera, too, the one with the telephoto lens as long as his arm. One good shot of Brendon, arms out, board angled up and out of the water, bent and going for the cut-back, and then he's gone. He's in the water.

Brendon goes all out, straight in, fast forward, every time. He grabs every wave he can, not waiting for the best, but doing what he does with what he has. It's not that he's good at surfing; it's that he looks good doing it.

The surf punks Brendon's fallen in with since moving out west tell Spencer that he should get out there. He'll be a natural, they say. Spencer, apparently, has the feet for surfing. What Spencer doesn't have is the balance.

The dogs come running back into the house, circling around Spencer's feet, making him unsteady as if to prove the point. Spencer's going back to bed. He finds coffee left cold from last night's movie marathon, pours it over ice, and also finds chocolate milk in the fridge. That might belong to Brendon, too. He finishes it off in his coffee, grabs his laptop from the kitchen table, sidesteps boxes still unpacked, and flops into his unmade bed. It's still only a mattress on the floor. Spencer needs to make another trip to IKEA.

When he gets the text, and the link, and the invitation, Spencer thinks about just letting it go. Brendon will show up later. They'll eat, and fuck, and smoke, and it won't matter that Spencer blew off surfing because Brendon has people to do that with. He doesn't need Spencer.

But Spencer finds himself clicking deeper and deeper into the IKEA catalogue and thinks, maybe he's the one who needs this.

He packs slowly, not bothering with a shower if he's headed to the beach. Shoves a towel in a Trader Joe's bag, then another because God knows what Brendon brought with him. Spencer can't even be sure if Brendon went home first. They've all been living like hobos in this in-between time. Spencer hasn't even unpacked his shoes.

One last text, a request from Shane for beer and sunscreen, Brendon, no doubt, hanging over his shoulder while Shane typed. There's no more beer in Spencer's fridge, but he finds sunscreen wrapped up in a wet pair of shorts, throws both in the car, and he's off.

-

He wakes up because the dogs are whining. Spencer doesn't want to get up but he wants to be a responsible dog owner so he gets up to let them out, tripping over the mountain of IKEA packaging still strewn around the livingroom.

He lets them back in, their fat, happy dog faces making him smile against the sun, then he pours the last of yesterday's cold coffee over ice, adds chocolate milk and heads back to bed.

He's about to fall back asleep, Boba wormed under one arm, when his phone dings a new text message. He makes a deal with himself: if he can reach the phone without moving he'll check it. If not, it can wait.

He can. outdoor fucking starts today! Brendon tells him.

Spencer can't ignore that. He snorts and responds. you bringin' your favorite lady? If Brendon's up and awake he doesn't want to go back to sleep. He sits up to drink his coffee and grabs for his laptop.

Brendon gets back to him while he's browsing IKEA's return policy. my favorite lady thinks we should surf again. Then meet us, here and a link. One of the places they'd talked about last week.

does that make me your favorite lay? He doesn't blush as he sends it. They both know the song, they both know their history. If something's going to happen, it's going to happen. If it's not, it's not. They can surf and joke and flirt and fuck and it's all good.

Brendon doesn't respond. He's not surprised. He doesn't shower but he takes his time packing up. Shane texts him as he's getting into the car, asking for beer and sunscreen. Of course.

It's a nice drive. He takes it slow. Not as slow as Ryan would but slow enough for him to get a few pics of the scenery.

They're happy to see him, and not just cause he has sunscreen and beer. Brendon's crew of Californian surfer-stoners are just as clichéd as Ryan's crew of Californian bohemian-stoners but they're much more approachable.

"Thanks, man," Shane walks toward him, dripping and smiling.

"Stop, lemme get that," he holds up his camera. Shane never purposefully smiles for cameras, especially when it's them, but he doesn't say no. Spencer likes that he doesn't mind the turnaround.

"Jon'll like that one," he turns the camera off, stows it in his bag. "How're the waves?"

Spencer doesn't much feel like surfing. He decides to take a boogie board out to float on the water. He's working on talking about evening up his tan so he smears on an uneven coat of sunscreen, purposefully leaving a few areas uncovered.

It's just as hard as he remembered to push past the breaker waves but then he's floating and staring at the sky and getting his breath back with the taste of salt water on his tongue.

"Fancy meeting you here," Brendon paddles up on his board. Spencer tilts his head back to see him.

"Yes, completely unexpected," he agrees. "You only invited me."

"Don't bring logic into this," Brendon splashes water at him. He considers splashing back but it's not worth it. They're in the middle of the ocean, after all.

"Thanks for the invite," he says. Brendon looks confused.

"Of course." They're being pushed and nudged by the swelling waves, knocked together and pulled apart in turns. Spencer would reach out to smooth Brendon's brow if he could reach it, if he could know doing so wouldn't end in concussion.

"It's fun," he explains. He doesn't think he's explaining it that well. "Just. There are so many was we're supposed to have fun and share that fun with the media or the fans or whatever. It's really nice to have this, where we can have fun and don't have to explain what's going on." He's completely lost the thread of what he's trying to say but he bets Brendon understands.

Brendon rolls his eyes. "This is a stupid place to have this conversation, let's go get a beer."

They're two boys in the middle of the Pacific Ocean sitting and talking to each other and they're in a quiet moment, a calm moment with the ocean and their words, but then it's broken when Brendon leans over and kisses him quickly, nothing more impressive than a quick swipe of lips and tongue. But there's salt and dreams and friendship and it's good.

They get back to shore and Shane waves his camera at them. Busted, but it's just Shane, who knows most of all of their secrets and doesn't care. He knows when to turn the camera on and off and he knows when to take the photo but leave it in their hands.

"Thanks, man," he pats Shane on the back. And since he can he pulls Shane in, too, kisses his temple.

"Fuckin' Godfather wannabe," Brendon shouts.

-

Zack's the most excited of all of them. Spencer finds it very damn amusing but, what the hell, he's excited, too, so he's not pointing fingers.

They don't bother charting out their day. They're pros at this, wandering around with a set number of hours and a vague idea of what they'd like to do, where they'd like to go. Spencer's not too fussy. He knows he can come back if he misses something. He also knows he's pretty good at talking these guys into doing what he likes to do. He's a good negotiator. He has to be.

They start with California Adventure, since that kind of nearly sums up the last few months of their lives. Brendon and Spencer scoff at the fake backlots but secretly share a few amused glances. They probably could have shot Nine here.

They all fucking love the Tower of Terror so they ride it again. And a third time, when Shane asks, a gleam in his eye. Zack and Sarah sit the last round out but are productive with their time. They meet them at the exit with a round of beers.

"My hero!" Brendon busses Sarah's cheek and downs half the proffered bottle in one go.

"Drink 'em up dudes," Zack has three bottles dangling from his fingers, he and Shane pick them like fruit off a tree. "No beer in Disney itself."

Which just mean, of course, that they stop for three more rounds before they're done, ready to trek from one park to the other. It's sunny enough Spencer's glad he put on sunscreen but not so hot he's uncomfortable. Even Brendon's not sweating much.

Main Street is exactly what he expected. They file along, enjoying the purported Americana. He's more amused by it than anything else. He's fucking grateful he's actually seen America, doesn't have to rely on this depiction of it.

Shane nudges him, jerking his chin at Brendon and Sarah, raising an eyebrow. He raises an eyebrow back. If Shane has a point he'll have to say it out loud. Shane tries to give him a noogie instead.

It's not like he feels broken up with or abandoned or anything. He might feel a little pang when Brendon turns around to grin at him, his hand swinging clasped in Sarah's at his side. It's picturesque. It's simple. Brendon deserves something good, something that's just his. Spencer had Brendon and Haley both, for years. He knows he doesn't get to be jealous, not about this.

"Here," he reached for the camera slung around Zack's neck. "Get a shot of them being stupidly adorable, he'll like it."

Zack hands him the camera, which wasn't what he expected. He wants the moment to be captured but he's not entirely sure he wants to be the one capturing it.

Fuck it. He snaps a few shots and hands the camera back to Zack. He and Zack don't talk about shit like their emotions but he knows Zack's way of making a point.

"Yo, Space Mountain?" Shane's map is folded backwards, lumpily stretching out his back pocket. Spencer looks up the wait time on his iPhone and gives a thumb's up. They look clear, as they have all day. Mid-week attendance has its benefits.

They ride and they wander and they eat ice cream and buy excellently tacky shit and he loves every part of it. They all love Tomorrowland and spend far too long wandering around and posing with the fake-ass technology of the fake-ass future. Spencer takes delight in pointing out how his iPhone can do nearly everything the exhibits talk about until Zack threatens to throw his his phone in the fountain. Zack doesn't destroy property like that but he takes the point.

There's nowhere to smoke up before some of the more surreal rides. Zack's magic doesn't work here, there's no convenient corner or alley or balcony where they won't be seen or if they are seen no one will care. Spencer watches two girls with blonde pigtails running hand-in-hand and thinks about his sisters, and about how in this supposed cartoon utopia he's probably one of those people your mom warns you about.

He shakes off being uncomfortable because he's made his life choices and he's happy and it's not like he believes in that upstanding citizen bullshit anyway. He's been to five continents, countless countries and cities, and he's rocked them all. He has his family and his band, who are his other family, down to the stupid fights and the knowledge they're all tied together, no matter what. It's stupid to wonder what his life would look like if he hadn't chosen ambition over safety.

"Yo," Brendon shows up as he's buying a stack of postcards. "You having fun?"

"Yep," he slips a pair of ridiculous neon glasses onto Brendon's face. "You?"

"Always," Brendon grins and wanders off. Spencer buys him the glasses.

-

"Our rooms are the size of small countries," Jon says when they rendezvous at the bar, and then he and Brendon break out their iPhones, trying to figure out which tiny African countries they can nickname their hotel rooms. It's crass enough for Ryan to wince and look around for other people but funny enough he laughs when Spencer does. Ryan clearly doesn't understand that Spencer was laughing at him. He guesses Zack does, by the rolled eyes.

Their rooms are like the size of small countries, it's unbelievable and true. They could all probably stay in one of them, and possibly will one night. The bar is like an even bigger small country and for now it's theirs alone.

Spencer thinks he could get used to this, perfectly mixed drinks served up in the shade moments after they're made, no pressure to write or record since they're here to play. It's hotter and dryer than LA, similar to Vegas in a way that surprises him, and they all know there's an official reason to be here but it's not hanging over there heads and damn if they aren't going to enjoy the fuck out of this while they can.

"Spence," Jon tugs on his sleeve as he passes by on the way to the bathroom. He raises an eyebrow over his sunglasses. "African weed." Jon's eyes are huge but he's not stoned yet, just excited. Spencer nods and repeats it back with his most serious intonation.

When he comes back out Jon and Brendon are sleeping in the sun. He sets a timer on his phone. They all slathered on sunscreen but they can't risk getting burned, not this early in the trip. He sits in the shade to take off his shoes and socks. He snorts at himself but rolls up his jeans as far as they'll go.

Ryan wanders past, heading in Eric's direction with a set of horns in his hands and Spencer tips back in his chair, content to watch whatever shenanigans might unfold.

He's sure there'll be African weed later, probably more drinks, possibly some food. He dozes off pondering what drinks he might request, what else he might do with his afternoon.

He wakes muzzily when his alarm goes off. He doesn't remember falling asleep. He'd dozed, sure, and ordered another drink and told Zack to get a photo of whatever Ryan was doing, but he hadn't meant to fall asleep. He stumbles up to wake Jon and Brendon but finds them gone.

Spencer feels hot and bloated, now, too warm for clothes or being awake. "Blech," he shakes his arms out, looking around. Everyone's gone, or at least out of sight. He gathers his phone and his possessions and heads for his room, stopping to get a bottle of water on the way.

When he steps in he finds Brendon asleep on his bed, naked, face down. It's a better present than he expected. He tries to figure out what he wants to do with it. What he wants to do first is feel less disgusting so he strips and showers briskly, rinsing off the sun- and salt-bloated feeling. He steps out feeling awake and refreshed and eager to join Brendon.

Brendon's waiting for him. He's not sure Brendon was ever asleep but he's definitely awake now. Spencer stops in the doorway to towel off his hair and appreciate. Brendon's on his side, facing the bathroom door, waiting for him and watching him in return.

They stare at each other silently as Spencer dries off. It's warm but there's a fan sending air around the room. He shivers when Brendon moves slowly, scrunching down the bed and extending his arms, stretching as performance. Brendon keeps eye contact with him but rolls so his ass is on display. Spencer chuckles and throws the towel into the bathroom.

He takes a running jump on to the bed, landing on his knees. They both laugh. He enjoys how Brendon's body bounces with the bed, but presses Brendon's lower back to the bed with one palm. If Brendon's showing him his ass there's a good reason for it. Brendon's vain but not that type of vain, not without purpose.

"What do you want?" Brendon whispers after he kisses the dip of Brendon's spine.

"Like you don't know," Spencer scrapes his teeth along the plump curve of Brendon's ass. His damp hair falls around his vision. The wet tips drag along Brendon's skin as Spencer moves. Brendon shivers under him.

"What do you want?" He turns the question back around on Brendon after he drags his lips over the juncture between Brendon's ass and thigh. Brendon's muscles clench and unclench under his lips.

"Like you don't know," Brendon wiggles under his touch. "So get there why don't you?"

-

He creeps along behind Spencer, one hand clutching Spencer's belt and one hand feeling for the stair rail. After they get to the bottom and around the corner, Spencer puts one arm up, stopping them. They wait as a pair of headlights disappear in the distance then Brendon breaks for it a split second after Spencer does, racing across the sand.

When they get to the first lifeguard house Spencer stops, drops to his knees and falls into the shadow under the guard rail. "What?" Brendon's laughing but he drops down next to Spencer.

Spencer's taken the entire mission very seriously. He's wearing the octodrive around his neck, not on its original chain but hanging in a water proof baggie. Spencer taped the baggie shut, wrapped it in saran wrap and fashioned a duct tape necklace for it. Brendon suspects Spencer's watched too many spy movies lately, or maybe too much Mythbusters. Brendon's the smart one, he has a tiny flag to stick where they bury it. Or maybe a few feet away, if they're feeling devious.

Then again, Mark asked them to do this, so. Brendon's taking it seriously too. Except -- "Spence," he has to crawl quickly to keep up, "what the hell?"

"Shhh," Spencer waves at him to be quiet. "Primary target has civilians surrounding it." He peers out around Spencer's shoulder. There are some kids leaning against the next guard stand, making out.

It's cold on the beach, the air humid and chill. "We could leave it here," he whispers, flexing his toes to clear the sand out from in between.

Spencer doesn't respond but he waves to shush Brendon. The kids keep making out and Spencer keeps watching them, crawling forward on his belly in the sand under the guard station until he's peeking out the other side. Brendon has to stop himself from laughing when Spencer lobbies a rock in their direction. If Spencer weren't such a good shot he'd be worried, but he is and Brendon enjoys them jumping when it hits the side of the station next to them.

They wait until the kids are back in their car before they sprint over one. Spencer slides in like he's sliding for home base, tugging his backpack off as he goes. Brendon laughs when he realizes there are two portable shovels in there. "Spencer," he folds over laughing, too amused.

"Shut up and dig!" Spencer stage-whispers, throwing him a shovel.

"Yes sir!" he sketches a salute with the shovel, joins in. The shovel's too short, he falls to his knees on the other side of their tiny hole in the ground. "We shouldn't go too deep," he frets, when Spencer keeps going after he stops.

"Keeps 'em on their toes," Spencer says, but stops two shovel fulls of sand later. He looks regretful as he pulls the pouch from around his neck, regretful and fucking scary when he flips a small switchblade out of his pocket and cuts the duct tape near one corner. "Here, hold this," Spencer gives him the far end, and Brendon understands. They're going to leave a little pull-tab on the sand.

"You're so smart," he marvels. Spencer smiles at him. They finish by smoothing the sand out over the top, which Brendon realizes makes it too obvious, so he chops it up a bit with the toe of his sneaker while Spencer stashes the shovels.

"OK, time to transmit the Twitters." Spencer pulls his phone out of his pocket. Brendon goes around the side of the lifeguard tower to plant the flag, cackling.

Brendon sends his text when Spencer tells him to. Right after he hits send a pair of headlights turn into the closest parking lot. He and Spencer share a shocked look before they sprint back to the first guard station, jockeying to see who'll dive into the darkness underneath first.

They huddle together gasping for breath, waiting to see if their work will be undone so soon, but the headlights clear back out minutes later.

"We should stay to see," he trails off. Spencer's already nodding.

They wait. Without the mission ahead of them it gets boring really quickly, boring and cold. He realizes he's shivering only after Spencer wraps an arm around him, pulling him in to tuck against his side.

"Wanna make out?" he turns his head until he's looking up Spencer's nose. "Time honored tradition." They're not under the pier but it's close enough.

"You're Sandy," Spencer says, shifting until he's lying back on the sand, pulling Brendon to sprawl over him.

"Oh, Danny, I shouldn't," he says breathlessly, after their first kiss.

"Shut up," Spencer growls, nipping his chin and, yes, please. Brendon spreads his legs to get some traction around Spencer, as they tussle in the sand. They're nearly lost in it when a car door slams. "Fuck," Spencer rolls them to the side, throwing Brendon off. "Should we go?"

"Um, yes," Brendon sees more headlights in the distance. "Run."

-

Waiting in the car for Brendon has become Spencer's second job. He texts this to Ryan while he waits, and the response that comes back is whats the first?

banging your mom.

Nothing comes back from Ryan, so Spencer goes back to sending cat macros to Jon.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," Brendon is saying, even before he opens the door and gets in. "I suck, I know, don't say anything."

Spencer doesn't know what he could say that he hasn't already. It's not worth it. Just get through the hiatus, get the next album done, and soon someone else will have to drive. Not that Spencer doesn't love to drive. He particularly loves this new convertible and the way Brendon holds his hands out in the rushing wind. It's the getting to that point that wears Spencer out.

Too many late nights and early mornings stuck inside a cramped car, waiting for Brendon to get his shit together. That's what Spencer is going to blame the next time someone rolls their eyes at his cherry red ragtop convertible because, fuck, he's tired of squeezing into tiny spaces and trying to enjoy himself. Besides, he's a rock star. He gets a nice car.

He drives up to Brendon's house, and they're usually on the phone as he does, so Spencer just honks the horn. Brendon sounds startled. He says, "What? You're here already?"

"I told you I was coming up the hill, Bren."

"OK, OK. Don't bother coming in. I'm just about ready."

Which means another twenty minutes Spencer is stuck in his car, trying to get anything--a smoke signal--out of Ryan and deciphering Jon's sad attempt at LOLspeak.

Brendon finally makes it outside, turning back just once to check that the door is locked. He tosses an armful of crap in the backseat and settles in. Spencer has to remind him to put on his seatbelt.

He tosses his phone in Brendon's lap. "Talk to Jon," he says.

"I'll tell him he's missing a kickass day at the beach."

They're spending a lot of time at the beach right now. So much time, they should have it down to a routine, but Brendon still comes with a wet towel, and Spencer still forgets a bottle opener, and, well, they're two down from a full party.

"I mean, Jon's in Chicago, that's where he wants to be." Brendon got rid of his shirt in the car, and now he's shimmying out of his pants. Underneath, he's wearing neon pink swim trunks. Spencer could do without the trunks, but he loves the shimmy. "But what the fuck, Ryan Ross?"

"Yeah." Spencer shakes the blanket up and lays it out. He's down to his bathing suit now, too. "This is going to be our summer right here."

"Not that there's anything wrong with this right here," Brendon says, gesturing his hand with the sunscreen towards the water. There are white streaks all over his legs. Brendon continues his rant while Spencer leans forward to rub them in. "Grab a fucking guitar, and we could write the album on the beach." He sighs. "I haven't talked to him since May. You?"

"He answers texts. Sporadically." Spencer rolls over to find his phone in Brendon's pants. There's more from Jon. He hasn't been back in a few weeks now. He's excited every time he flies out to LA, but Spencer can't handle many more days like the last time they took Jon to the airport. He laughed and hugged and promised Brendon he'd back soon. But then he turned to Spencer, and Spencer could tell, the look in his eyes, Jon didn't know if he was coming back.

Ryan didn't come with them. It was just Spencer and Brendon riding back from the airport.

"Hey." He tugs the hem of Brendon's trunks. "Lay down with me."

Sometimes, they can spend the whole day at the beach and never go in the water. It's enough just knowing it's there. Spencer likes to watch Brendon, too, bobbing in the ocean. They have lunch and a Frisbee and batteries charged for enough music to last all day. They'll stay until it gets dark.

"Did you bring a guitar?" he asks. Spencer rests his chin on Brendon's shoulder. There's another streak of white across his belly, and Spencer rubs it clean. "Fuck Ryan. We'll write the new album."

Brendon laughs. "Totally."

Spencer pushes forward into a kiss. They're half on top of each other already, even thought the blanket is big enough for both, and more, if they decided to show up. Spencer hates laying on a towel on the sand--there's never enough room for anything you want to do. He'll wait until it's dark, until the crowds have dispersed, before they do anything more than this. Kissing, and Spencer's hands still rubbing Brendon's belly, and Brendon's fingers sneaking up his neck, under his hair.

They have space enough and time. Spencer doesn't like waiting for Brendon, but waiting with him is perfect.

-

The tiny Audi takes them all over California, including two stops in Mexico and one back home to Vegas. But this summer is about California.

Spencer just wants to get out of the city. He doesn't care where Brendon drives. They start small--a couple of hours away, a couple of tourist traps. Spencer packs lunch, and they stay out longer. Brendon puts a guitar in the back seat, and they sleep on the beach. Sometimes, their phones don't work when they stop. Brendon decides they should only buy gas from stations named after the guy in overalls. Spencer agrees because those places always have the best snacks and the cleanest bathrooms.

They don't sleep in the car. Spencer lays in the back, his feet on the roof as if to prove the point. "Not gonna work," he says.

Brendon climbs over the stick shift and pushes Spencer's legs down and out of the way. He falls on top of Spencer in the back seat, but as nicely as possible.

"Not even," Brendon says, somewhere around Spencer's left nipple. He pushes up on his hands. "Not even for the sake of nostalgia?"

Spencer's eyebrows go up. "When did you ever have time to make out in cars when you were a teenager?"

"For the sake of someone else's nostalgia?"

They nix the back seat, but not before Brendon gets in a decent grope. He's got Spencer pinned, sitting on his hips and holding his hands. "Kiss me," he says, "then I'll let you up."

It's a good car. Decadent enough to make Brendon feel like a dick sitting at lights next to a kid in his mom's mini-van, but that reliable German engineering that no one can deny. That's why he had to buy it. That's the reason Brendon will use when Ryan starts rolling his eyes. Jon will shake his head, but he'll also want to ride shotgun.

It's a good car that's taken Brendon and Spencer up to see the redwoods, down to the desert, and across to the ocean. There have been blowjobs in the seats that go all the way back and makeout sessions that go on for hours. Anything more than that, they take it outside.

"You're too tall," Brendon says, pulling Spencer outside the passenger side door. With an arm tight around Spencer's waist, he leads them across the parking lot and down to the beach. "That's the problem. If I were having sex with Jon, we could totally do it in my car."

"I'll just head home, shall I?" Spencer tries to pull away, but Brendon's got him. He spins him back and catches his chin for a kiss. The sun is just going down. If they hurry, they can see it set over the water.

There are other people on the beach, but everyone keeps their distance. Another couple with blanket and basket lean against the biggest piece of driftwood. Some kids are playing Frisbee and drinking beer in the distance. Brendon picks a big empty spot right in the middle.

"Here?" Spencer asks. "You don't want a log or something to hide behind?" He looks annoyed, but that's just Spencer, and he settles down into the sand next to Brendon anyway. There's a blanket in the back of the car, warm pop and crushed chips, too, but Brendon doesn't need any of that right now. He doesn't need a log to hide behind.

"You think they're watching us, Spence, when that sun is coming down all red and orange like that?"

Spencer lays back, using his hoodie bunched up as a pillow. He's not too tall after all. He's the perfect size for Brendon to lay on, head on Spencer's chest, and when his fingers get cold, he sneaks them up under Spencer's shirt. Then he draws down under Spencer's pants.

"They're not watching us." As he talks, Brendon pops each button of Spencer's button fly jeans, spreading the flaps, and reaching into his underwear to pull out his dick. That's when he gets the first reaction, a sharp hiss from above when the wet tip of Spencer's dick hits the cool night air. Brendon licks him warm.

With his head rested low on Spencer's belly, and Spencer's hands restless in his hair, Brendon sucks, just lightly, on the tip, just a tease. He startles when Spencer's fingers clench painfully in his hair. He's let it grow since Spencer seems to like this. Brendon knees him for the clenching, and they both concede. They fall into a rhythm, Spencer's fingers in his hair and Brendon's hand on his dick.

"We could have done this in the car," Spencer argues.

They could do this anywhere, that's what Brendon finds amazing about his life. He's allowed to play the music he wants to play and be with the person he wants to be with. And sometimes he gets to watch the sun come down behind the Pacific Ocean.

-

It's after the worst recording session of this album so far, the next morning, that Brendon bails, throws his acoustic and that mini-DV Shane bought him last Christmas in the back of his car and drives out to Venice Beach. He sends a text to Twitter as he's parking the car: becuase its there are you there with me? http://bit.ly/S0eob

Then he calls Spencer.

"Bring your maracas and come play with me."

"Where are you?" Spencer asks. In the background, he can hear Jon say, "Is that Brendon?"

"No recording today," he says. "Just music. Because it's there, Spence. C'mon."

He picks a spot under a tree, an empty patch of wall where he can sit. He should have grabbed an amp, too. It's a busy day at the beach. Brendon starts with The Band, stomping his boot like Levon's drum. He works his way back through the '70s to the '60s and is singing Dusty Springfield when Spencer shows up.

He actually brought his maracas. Brendon can hardly believe it. Under his arm, Spencer also has a tambourine. "And," he says, holding up a finger for Brendon to wait. From his back pocket he pulls a drumstick and cowbell hanging from it.

"Fuck, yeah." Brendon winds up and bangs out a power chord. "We're totally buskers now."

"This is maybe the silliest thing I've ever done," Spencer drones.

"Nuh uh. Remember this?" Brendon holds his finger under his nose, a bad imitation of Spencer's bad moustache.

That makes Spencer laugh, after he punches Brendon's arm. Then he takes a seat on the wall next to Brendon and starts banging that cowbell. So, of course, Brendon has to sing "Don't fear the Reaper."

A crowd starts to form now. The kids from Twitter are catching up with him, and the rest of the boardwalk takes a closer look now that they think they're missing something. Brendon skips back to the '60s to play some Beatles. Spencer likes "Yellow Submarine" because it gives him lots to do. Some girl shouts for "Esteban" during a lull.

"I'm not allowed to play that song with Ryan Ross," Brendon tells her, cheeky. He thinks he's gotten away with it, but then someone in the back shouts, "OMG." She actually says each letter separately.

Spencer does a drum roll with his hands on the concrete wall. Brendon can see the plaid hat bobbing above the crowd. "You suck," he hisses in Spencer's direction.

"What? I was at the studio when you phoned." He stands up on the wall now, towering over them all, with the camera pointed at the kids. "Cheer really loud, guys, and maybe Brendon will play a song he actually wrote."

Jon pushes through the crowd, hunched over his guitar like a football player powering through a scrum, and Ryan's right there behind him, in the space Jon leaves empty.

"You're crazy," Jon tells him, but he's holding up an amp and has cords looped around his neck. Jon plays tech, setting them all up, while Spencer keeps the kids occupied with the camera. He's making them all twitter @petewentz at the same time.

"You are crazy," Ryan repeats, sitting next to Brendon now. He's tuning up.

"We were all going crazy in there. This is our safety valve on the album. Release some pressure before Panic blows up."

Ryan nods, but he turns and freezes Brendon with a sharp stare. "Don't run away again," he says, then Jon steps back over to them and hands Brendon the plug end of a cord.

They don't play "Esteban," but "Green Gentlemen" placates the crowd. Jon is the only one who doesn't sit on the wall under the tree, bobbing along with the rest of the kids. Spencer keeps the beat, banging his tambourine on his thigh, and he's filming with his other hand. Brendon catches the camera out of the corner of his eye. Mostly, he tries to ignore it and just sing.

"You got my good side, right?" Brendon asks, when they're heading home. He doesn't know how long they played, but Brendon's starving. Jon said tacos, so they're meeting at that place next to the laundromat. He and Ryan are walking ahead with most of the equipment. Brendon is still fending off autographs, running interference to let them escape.

"All your sides are good sides," Spencer says. With the camera still in his hand, he wraps an arm around Brendon's neck and pulls him away from the crowd. They're running now, looking ahead for their cars. Brendon slams into the door, flips into the passenger seat, and lands on his guitar. It gives up a mournful twang.

The dramatics are not altogether necessary, Brendon realizes, when he looks back and sees no raging crowd, no screaming girls, waving their panties in the air. It's a little disappointing, he has to admit.

"Ride with me?" he asks, as Spencer approaches the car. He's walking at a leisurely pace now. He leans in, over the door, and surprises Brendon with a kiss. "Because it's there?"

"Because I wanted to," Spencer smiles.

-

Brendon knew Spencer still had a thing for Blink-182 but he thought it was, like, a buddy thing, since it's years later and Spencer is now friends with the band. He hadn't realized Spencer still had a thing thing for Blink-182. "It's cute," he assures Spencer on the drive. "A little bizarre but cute. Do you want me to give Mark a love note? Check yes? I think he'd check yes." Brendon might do it anyway, as some type of tour prank. No one would ever need to know it started as anything other than a joke, right?

"You'd check yes," Spencer mutters but he doesn't answer the question.

"Your mom'd check yes," he retorts, because that's what he does when Spencer uses that tone of voice.

"Ryan would check yes," Spencer slaps his knee as he laughs. Brendon is in a band full of wannabe old men and he has no clue how that happened.

"I just think it's funny, is all," he tries again a few miles further down the road. "We're taking a pilgrimage to our hometown, the one we no longer live in, to see a band we'll be on tour with in a month."

"I'm going to this show to honor alternate-universe-me." Spencer's calm but Brendon knows the signs of his excitement. He's excited, too, but to play on the tour, not just to see it. "The me that doesn't exist because this band inspired me to do what I've done."

"That's some type of wackyass logic there," he doesn't take his eyes off the road as he reaches over to poke Spencer. "I like it."

Spencer bats his hand away but can't tell him to keep his eyes on the road. Ha. They're about an hour away from the Mad Greek, Spencer's probably getting antsy for his strawberry milkshake.

"Is Ryan meeting us there?" Spencer shakes his head and Brendon raises an eyebrow. "He doesn't want to pay his tribute to your teenage years and his alternate self?"

"He wants to stay virgin for the tour before we join," Spencer says it like it makes sense. It probably does, to him. They've probably talked about it for hours on the phone, discussing the fine points of seeing it early and seeing it late.

Either way, Brendon is driving back to Vegas in late July, when the heat and the sun are so strong he's tempted to put on another pair of sunglasses and the A/C is cranked to the max.

The drive is nostalgic. Brendon forgets, sometimes, that he can be nostalgic for Vegas. He misses small things, stupid things. He loves his life in California and the freedom inherent in living just far enough away from home but still close to his band family.

They stop at the Greek and they linger. Brendon's left arrangements up to Spencer, he assumes someone knows they're coming and will let them in where they need to go. Which also means he's left timing to Spencer and if Spencer

"Remember when," starts most of their sentences. They've driven this road many a time, in junky cars and fancy buses. The stories from this route merge with stories from other routes until they're telling the best and brightest of the tour stories, the ones everyone knows and the ones nobody believes.

"I hope we play something like this, someday." Spencer says it and it's sounds sad to his ears. You only play a show like this after years of not playing shows. Brendon swallows. He doesn't want that and he doesn't want to think about it.

He doesn't know what to say and the silence stretches too long, too painfully. "We should write something up," Brendon decides. "Whatever else happens, we play one concert a year or something. Sign it in blood."

"That might get Ryan to sign it, make a ceremony out of it," Spencer says and it's a joke, it's a way out. They joke about what other things Ryan has and would sign, if there's a little ceremony.

But it stays with Brendon. He doesn't let himself think about the end of the band. He can think about it practically, has a few song tidbits put aside for whatever or someday, but tonight it hurts deep down to contemplate what it would mean, what type of pressure could blow them apart.

They arrive in good spirits. They decide to skip the valet and the VIP and wander around, see if they're recognized. They might not be, not on this leg and not this early. "Hey," he catches Spencer's arm before they get too far away from the car. "I'd sign it." He tucks himself into Spencer's side. "I'd sign anything you want me to sign."

Spencer gives him a sharp look and he thinks about how that could be interpreted but doesn't say anything more. "Thank you," Spencer whispers before he leans in for a kiss. Brendon doesn't look around, doesn't dodge out of the way. He means it.

-

It's not until after the show, making their way back across the parking lot, that someone stops them. Two boys (and Brendon's calling them boys), who explain how they love Panic at the Disco and Brendon, in particular.

"You're so hot," one says, dreamy, and the other looks embarrassed. He quickly adds, "Your voice is amazing." They're in a band, too, he explains. They don't sing, but if they did, they'd want to sound just like him.

Brendon signs their Blink tickets while Spencer stands to the side, arms across his chest. He could make a noise or say something to get their attention, but Spencer would rather wait and see what happens. He wouldn't care if they didn't even notice.

"Hey," the one finally says. He holds his ticket and pen out for Spencer. "Do you want to sign, too?"

Spencer stares the kid down. Brendon bites his lip to keep from laughing. "Do you want me to sign, too?" Spencer asks.

The boys beat it out of there as soon as they get their autographs. It's always weird getting recognized (and, Brendon admits, always a thrill), but it's weirder when it's not all four of them. Once, with Jon, in a gas station getting provision, three girls followed them up and down the aisles. They watched while Jon pulled slushies, but they never said a thing.

Brendon slips his arm through Spencer's and pulls him away. They head to the car, no time to look back.

"You're really sure you don't want to go to the after party?"

Brendon would have loved the after party. They snuck backstage just long enough to say hey, and Mark told them to come in, to come with. Spencer seemed nervous, though, and Brendon didn't make him stay long. They'll have plenty of time to hang with the guys on tour.

"I think I'm done with people for the night," Spencer decides.

"Aw." Brendon leans him against the car. Spencer's still working through his annoyance, as well as his boyhood crush on Blink, and Brendon catches him by surprise with the kiss. "You didn't know I was gonna do that?" he asks, another kiss on Spencer's cheek.

"I didn't know you were going to do that here," Spencer says, but he also doesn't push Brendon away. From Spencer, that's asking for more. Then he boosts himself up onto the car's hood, and, really, Brendon's not going to say no to that. Not even in the parking lot after a show. It's dark. He can get away with a lot in the dark.

Brendon ducks his head. He's not trying to get away from Spencer's lips, but that's how Spencer sees it. He grabs Brendon by the neck, slides his fingers up into his hair, and pulls Brendon back into the kiss. Spencer isn't done yet.

"Just a sec," Brendon tells him and ducks again. He wants to see when he grabs Spencer's thighs to pull them apart, and he wants to see how Spencer's long legs wrap around Brendon's waist as he steps into the space made. The car is the perfect height. "That's better," he smiles, and they get back to kissing.

Even from the back of the room, down in the pit with the rest of the audience, or up in the balcony, comfortable chairs, Brendon feels the music as if he were the one on stage. Always does. Even when they hate the bad, which, going to concerts with Spencer, happens a lot. Brendon would think the guy would have sympathy for the opening act, but you only get one chance to impress Spencer Smith. Brendon always claps.

When it's your friends on stage and you have to watch, it's different. He's heard those songs a million times, listened to them in cars, in tour buses, in his headphones on his bed to block out the sound of his family. They sounded different tonight, burrowed deeper, and Brendon's still singing along to Blink in his head.

"I like that," Spencer says. Brendon doesn't follow. "When you hum when we kiss. I like that."

Of course Brendon does it again, louder, and the kiss is more, deeper. Spencer hauls Brendon in with hands under his armpits. They fall backwards, "whoops," but Spencer's got him. Spencer knows what he's doing, though they've never quite done it like this before.

His hands come down Brendon's back to his ass, gripping and guiding. The car is the perfect height. Brendon leads the kiss, getting wetter now, mostly tongue. Spencer gets them off. Spencer's hips are magic. Brendon wants to live here, in the cradle of his legs, where every movement is lined up just right. Brendon twitches, and it feels good.

It's still a parking lot, and it's still more public than Spencer usually allows, so he pushes them harder, faster. He bites at Brendon's lips, and Brendon hums along. They're kissing a mess now, stubble and beard scraping against each other. Spencer's going to leave a nice red mark on Brendon's jaw. That's where he's sucking when he finally comes. Brendon knows it because Spencer bites.

"That was amazing, Mr. Urie. Will you sign my ticket?" Spencer's going for sarcasm, but he only sounds breathless.

"Get in the car."

-

It's kind of sick the way they keep score. But Spencer's already up by two, and Brendon won't stand for that.

"Best thing to do in a hotel bed." Brendon says. He's comfy, tucked in between Spencer's thighs, rubbing his stubbled chin across Spencer's shoulders.

"You're wrong. It's sleep." Spencer would say that; he's up by two.

A hotel night is a break first, comfort second, but mostly it's about sex. Everyone knows that. That's why Brendon blew Spencer against the door. Then they both got off in the shower. Spencer fucked him on the bed. Now, they're napping. Or Spencer is trying. Brendon won't let him slip away that easily.

"It's bunks for a month," Brendon reminds him. "After this," he whispers, cock sliding wetly between Spencer's cheeks. Brendon holds himself up and thrusts down. "After this, I won't be able to ride you for a month, Spencer. You can't want to let that slip away."

Spencer doesn't answer. He doesn't make a noise, but he does arch up, pushing his ass against Brendon, a clear sign of permission. Keep going, he's saying. He's saying, I want it. Brendon wants it, too, and everything's wet enough that he doesn't have to go anywhere to get anything.

"Once more," Brendon gasped. He wouldn't be able to just slip and slide into Spencer, but this was good enough for now. He'd push himself against Spencer's hole, and he'd come. A little bit longer, before Spencer turned over, and Brendon lost that warm place. "Just lemme catch up."

Brendon catches up all over Spencer's back. Then he tips forward to curl up, not tired, but drowsy, in that good way where everything looks blurry and everything feels soft. He breathes in the smell of their skin. The gap is closing, and it's time for Spencer to fuck him again.

He thinks he falls asleep first because when Brendon opens his eyes again, he's on his back on the bed. Spencer is beside him, head on Brendon's stomach, eyes on the hand on his cock. He's playing, coaxing, just waiting for Brendon to be ready.

"I'm ready," he says, though he can barely lift his hand to Spencer's head.

Turning on Brendon's stomach, Spencer grins up at him. "Don't worry, I'll do all the work."

"Yeah, that's why you're ahead." Brendon burrows deeper into the pillows. The sheets smell fresh, like lemon and clean, miles away from the rest of the tour. The hotel is an oasis in the midst of stale smoke, flat beer, boys in confined spaces, and Jon refusing to wear shoes. The bed is a calm centre.

Spencer is slow to sit up, liquid legs wrap around Brendon's hips, shifting until they're touching in all the right places. Their breaths are coming together now, chests following the same in and out rhythm, mouths open and waiting for kisses. Brendon does let Spencer do all the work, stretching himself, and sinking down low until they're tight together. Watching it makes Brendon want him even more. But reaching out to grab isn't the way to get Spencer Smith.

When Brendon reaches out, it's to touch. He slides his fingers over Spencer's lips and into his mouth, letting loose a yelp when Spencer bites down. Brendon uses his wet fingers on Spencer's nipples, trying to get a yelp out of Spencer, too.

It feels casual, like there's no goal they're working towards, like this is the goal right here. Spencer clenches tight as he pushes himself up, and Brendon works his hips up to meet Spencer on the way down. He's already come, so he feels this could go on for days.

"Keep going?" Spencer asks, tongue coming out to lick his lips. He's hard and pulling on his cock, but maddeningly slow. It pains Brendon just to watch it, the long journey his fist makes from base to tip, around, then back again, taking forever. Spencer's leaking a lot now, making Brendon's stomach sticky, and his thighs must be aching. Brendon's are. Brendon plants his feet flat on the bed, a place for Spencer to lean back, and he does, and the new angle is amazing.

"Oh, keep going," Brendon groans. "More, more, more."

Spencer gets one more when Brendon isn't looking. He's focused on a pattern of tiles on the ceiling, counting to keep himself from ending this all too soon. Spencer shouts out his climax before Brendon makes it to double-digits.

Worn out, but smiling, and sitting up tall on Brendon's hips, Spencer keeps going. He's going to get Brendon there. He owes him a couple. He owes him a kiss first, so Brendon pulls him down to meet those lips that Spencer has licked nearly raw and red.

They may not be even yet, but the tour doesn't start up again until tomorrow. He has time and space, and fresh, clean sheets.

-

"Are we still in Africa?" Brendon asks. His voice is muffled by the pillow. He's face first on the bed, and Spencer had to crawl on top just to make sure he was breathing.

"New place," Spencer says. "New album, new tour."

"Everywhere we go is so damn hot."

It's a lot of hiding out in hotels this time around. In their room next door, Spencer and Jon rigged up the fan and the ice machine, and they've created a tiny Antarctica in the midst of a rock tour. Ryan went with Eric to scavenge for food, and Spencer was tasked with waking up Brendon.

"We have winter next door," he says, breathing some of that cold air across Brendon's neck.

"Mmm." Brendon rolls over. He's sweaty and gross, but Spencer's not quick enough, and he gets wrapped up in Brendon's arms. Chest hair matted and briefs soaked through, Brendon holds tight like he knows Spencer is cringing and crying out inside. "I could go for some winter," he says, matter-of-fact, letting go and getting off the bed, just like that.

"All right, but shower first." Spencer pulls his shirt off, careful not to let the wet fabric touch anything more than it needs to. He leaves it on Brendon's pillows, just because.

"Totally," Brendon agrees. He's standing, naked, in the bathroom doorway. "Why don't you join me?"

"Just get in there." This is why Spencer has rules. This is why they need to tour during the winter or further North. Of course, it wouldn't help Brendon, who sweats at the drop of a black silk top hat.

Spencer goes through the drawers and the closet, finding only Ryan's clothes, neatly folded and hung, chronologically, maybe, because it doesn't look like colour. Brendon has a suitcase on the floor next to his bed. There are some of Ryan's clothes in there, too, wrinkled, a grey sweatshirt most likely Jon's, and when Spencer digs down for a t-shirt he could wear, he finds something else.

It's a t-shirt he used to wear, but hasn't seen in years. He couldn't fit into it now--his shoulders got broad with the growth spurt, and Spencer's not above admitting his arms are bigger than they used to be. He left this shirt, the sparkles, the unicorns, the rainbows, all of it behind.

Except here it is, in Brendon's suitcase, like a loyal dog following its master across the country.

"Brendon!"

He hears then a crash, then "Shit," then wet feet squeaking on tile floor. Brendon comes out with a towel to scrub his dripping hair. The shower is still going, the echo filling the room now that the door's open.

Spencer holds up his shirt. "What is this?" Brendon's eyes go wide and sheepish. "Why do you--oh, God, Brendon, don't tell me you use this to beat off."

"I don't! Really!" He snatches it out of Spencer's hand. He spins around, looking for something, a place to get it out of the way because next he shoves the t-shirt into the drawer below the TV. "It's nothing. It's a souvenir. It's gonna be worth something on eBay, you know?" He waves a finger in Spencer's face.

"Is that what Jon's hoodie is?" Spencer asks. He steps back to the suitcase to pick it up for Brendon. "A souvenir?"

"That? No, he lent it to me a couple of days ago when we were lying on the bus watching stars." Brendon snatches that away, too, but shakes it out and carefully folds it on the bed.

"And Ryan's trousers?" Spencer points out. Brendon does the same, talking them, folding them, and leaving them on the bed, Ryan's this time, on the other side of the room.

"He threw them at me last night. I don't remember why. That's just where they landed."

When Spencer steps forward, Brendon steps back. He tries again, and his arms are just long enough to grab Brendon's elbow before he gets too far away. Still damp from the shower, but Spencer doesn't mind. "You don't wear it, do you?" He turns Brendon's face up.

"It's just a souvenir, Spence."

He leans down for the kiss first, but Brendon takes over pretty quick. Permission given, he hauls Spencer close, reaches up on his toes, and makes it worth getting wet again. They kiss like it's just kissing, nothing more than that, and not going anywhere. The bed is right there, Brendon's naked, and Spencer still hasn't found a clean shirt to wear, but this is just kissing.

The shower Brendon took was cold. His lips are cold, sharp contrast to his mouth, warm and wet. Spencer dives in, sliding their tongues together, drawing Brendon out. He leans them back, back, making Brendon hold them both up, hands clasped behind Spencer. The kiss breaks when Brendon stumbles his feet. Lips get bitten, tongues caught, but that's the risk.

"Let's go," Spencer decides. "I'm not getting you all sweaty again."

Brendon finds them both something to wear, mildly clean, and there's nothing more said about the unicorn shirt in the drawer below the TV. But Spencer knows it's not just a souvenir.

Once, they did it up against the glass door in a hotel room. Brendon had his eyes closed the entire time, but he could hear the fans screaming from down below. Spencer kept baiting them, waving and stepping out onto the balcony to show too much skin. "They can't see anything," Spencer said, adamant, and he was probably right. But Brendon also kept his eye on the windows across the way, the office buildings and apartments, where someone looking out on that beautiful sunny morning might see more than they wanted.

No one can see anything tonight. Brendon hopes. He was kind of ambushed, shoved up against his own front door and kissed rough, but ready. Like coming home from a date, Spencer kisses him on the stoop, where the whole street could see if they wanted.

The whole street would get a load of Spencer's pale back, where Brendon has pushed up his shirt. He's thinking if he gets Spencer's shirt off, he might convince Spencer to do this inside.

No luck. He gets down on his knees right there. Brendon doesn't have a porch--it's a concrete slab and badly-constructed steps, and it can't be comfortable down there for Spencer.

"Shut up," Spencer says, when he sees Brendon looking.

Brendon reaches down, and he brushes the hair off Spencer's face. He can't see his eyes. "You don't have to do this."

Spencer scoffs. "Who's watching?" and he already has Brendon's pants open. It's true--they live up a hill with trees all around, and here in LA, they know discretion. This is happening.

Brendon keeps his eyes squeezed shut. He wants to watch, but he can hardly bear it. He thinks maybe it won't last, he won't last. Brendon thinks maybe Spencer likes it that way.

Any other night, they'd come home. Probably high, definitely drunk, and, yes, sometimes Brendon has trouble getting the door open, but he always does get the door open. Then they have sex in a bed or, if they're high and drunk, on the couch. But inside, at least.

"Like being on stage," Spencer rumbles against Brendon's stomach.

"No, it isn't. It's nothing like on stage." There's no room for Brendon to get away. Besides, Spencer's got a pretty good grip on him. His fingers are hooked into the pockets of Brendon's jeans. He's rubbing his lips over Brendon's dick, tongue teasing through his teeth. "Hiding in the back--what would you know?"

Spencer knows how to use his teeth to make Brendon cry out in pleasure, not pain, and beg for more. It's not Spencer's fault that drummers sit in the back.

"Fine, fine." Brendon clenches his fingers in Spencer's hair. "Just get it done in less than three minutes."

Holding Brendon in one hand and licking the tip, Spencer pulls back long enough to say, "Rock and roll," then sucks him down deep. Deeper than Brendon expected, later, sure, but not just then. He grunts, bites his lips together, and tries to stay quiet. Fuck, but Spencer's good.

He can take Brendon's dick nearly all the way in, and even then, a tight fist does the rest of the work. It holds off Brendon's orgasm just long enough, long enough to make a blowjob against his front door worth the trouble.

Squeezing and letting go, sucking in and out, Spencer maintains a constant rhythm that Brendon can't help but mimic, in his fingers, in his breath. His panting matches up with Spencer's sucking, and he lets loose a groan each time Spencer swallows.

It's too much. It's over. It's the best blowjob Brendon's had on his front steps, that's for sure.

He drags Spencer up by his armpits. Their lips are chapped and stinging, but Brendon needs a kiss. He loves that taste.

"If that shows up on the internet, I'm telling Zack it's your fault."

Spencer hums against Brendon's cheek. "It is my fault. Now what do you say?"

Hands sneak around to Brendon's back pocket, looking for the keys. Spencer gets the door open while there's more kissing happening, and Brendon's thinking.

Brendon offers up "Thank you," because Spencer can't expect anything more from him tonight. If he makes it to the bed, Brendon will say "thank you" again, but reciprocation isn't likely.

Inside, they hold each other up, arms across shoulders and Spencer's hand tight on the back of Brendon's neck.

"Did we smoke up tonight? I forget." Brendon forgets, too, but his head is muggy like a night spent with the boys around a bonfire. He veers towards what he thinks might be the couch, but Spencer keeps them on track. He gets them to the bedroom, then to the bed, then under the covers. Brendon's flip flops slide to the floor

"It's OK," Spencer tells him. He pulls Brendon in to rest his head on Spencer's chest. "You can fuck me tomorrow."

-

"What are we watching?" Brendon clomps through to the back of the bus and returns to the lounge in a t-shirt and sweats.

"Done drinking for the night?"

He pauses, and makes a show of thinking. "Do we have beer left in the fridge?"

Spencer shakes his head. Zack took the last of it when he headed over to Fall Out Boy's bus earlier that night--Brendon must have noticed.

"Then, yes, I'm done drinking for the night." He nods, decisively, and joins Spencer on the couch. "So what are we watching?"

"Jon wanted to watch Grease." He waves his hand at the TV, with the remote, and mutes it. He wasn't really watching anyway. Spencer has seen this movie a lot. He was trying to decide if he wanted to join the rest of the guys out there, wherever they ended up tonight. Spencer was just tired, and Jon said he was tired, too, until his phone rang, and then he was gone.

"But where is he?"

"Oh. He bailed before they went back to school." Spencer's been stuck on the couch with Danny and Sandy ever since.

"Jonathan Walker," Brendon says, shocked, his mouth fallen open.

"I know." Spencer rearranges himself to make room for Brendon. They fall together easily, Spencer's back against Brendon's front, and Brendon's back against the couch. "What a dick, right?"

"Yeah. But I can never stay mad at JWalk." Brendon's too nice. Spencer is always telling Ryan it won't work out because Brendon's too nice. Ryan reminds him that he always says that, and it's still working out.

Brendon breathes hot into his neck, and he smells like beer. Not too much like smoke, but Spencer doesn't mind. He likes the warmth, the way Brendon fits all along his body, tucked up behind his knees, and just getting hard against his back.

"You wanna turn the sound back on?" One of Brendon's hands sneaks over Spencer's hip to come to rest on top of his hand, still holding onto the remote.

"Not really," Spencer says, and they both chuck it across the room. Sandy and the Pink Ladies continue singing and dancing, but no one on this bus is watching anymore. When Brendon hitches one leg over and tries to push him into the couch, Spencer stops him because it could be good just like this. They're already tight together. Spencer reaches into the couch cushions because he thinks they left condoms there last time. "You hard enough yet?"

"Shut up and gimme the condom."

Spencer waits. He watches the muted film and listens to the rustling and crinkling of Brendon's preparations. The clothes they're wearing only need to be pushed out of the way. Spencer shivers at the coolness in the air. But Brendon is so warm, so warm.

With fingers spit-wet, Brendon slides into Spencer's hole. He does it slow, no matter how many times they have sex. But Spencer won't beg. Brendon will make it good.

He stretches his arm back to pull Brendon's mouth to his. "Just don't take too long." Their kiss is a long press of lips. "I don't want to be here when the guys get back," Spencer says.

Happy to let Brendon do the work, Spencer shifts where he's lead, and there are little groans when Brendon stretches him open. Enough, until Spencer says, "Yes, yes, yes," and Brendon has the condom on, and he's inside.

When Brendon's inside, Spencer feels full. There's no burn, no pain, just pressure and heat. Brendon pushes him forward for more room on the couch to move, and the angle ends up being just right. Each stroke in pushes on that spot inside, and each stroke out is delicious friction.

They're both quiet. Spencer doesn't know what to say. He clenches his jaw and his fingers in Brendon's hair, and neither of them last longer than that.

Beer breath moist on Spencer's cheek, Brendon whispers, "Nice." He pulls out and stands, unsteady on his feet and trying to get the condom off while he walks towards the back of the bus.

Spencer pushes up on his elbows and arches his back in a stretch. "I'm going to sit outside," he yells back to Brendon. He lays on the couch, just a moment longer, still feeling his climax coursing through him. He's just prickling with sweat, and when Spencer steps off the bus, he breaks out all over in goose pimples.

Outside, he can hear what's happening on the other buses. Parties, drinking, smoking, and Zack has probably picked up at least one person and held them upside down.

"What do you think?" Brendon asks, standing at the top of the stairs behind him. He's not wearing his shirt anymore, just the thin grey sweats. He's hanging onto the doorframe and leaning himself out into the night. His eyes are focused across the way. Spencer just wanted some air, but everything's a performance for Brendon, no matter who's watching.

"You fall, and I'm not picking you up."

"Spoilsport."

Spencer meets him over the bottom stair. They kiss in the cold, then head inside for bed.

-

"Is beer allowed in Disneyworld?"

Spencer gives him a look. It's a look Brendon sees a lot of. "What do you think?"

"I don't know, man. It's Florida. Things are different."

All the shows in Florida, but they've never had time for Disneyworld. The other guys get to choose field trips all the time. Brendon has Zack on his side this time around. They're going. Brendon went to that stupid garden in Texas with Ryan, so Ryan needs to shut his face and ride the little teacups.

Brendon will have to work him up to it. As soon as they get inside, Ryan decides he wants food.

"We just got here," Spencer says, but it's no use. Ryan's hungry, and he's taking Spencer with him.

With a last apologetic look over his shoulder, Spencer disappears after Ryan and Zack and the rest of the crew. Jon stays behind, the only other person who knows that Disneyworld is supposed to be.

"We're going to have fun," Brendon announces and heads out. He wants to try the rides they don't have at Disneyland. He wants new and interesting experiences, always.

"I have a little something in my pocket for later," Jon tells him, hauling Brendon into his side with one arm. Jon usually has a little something in his pocket for later. It's not a rule, but it is something Brendon lives by.

"Space Mountain," it's decided, with the lights and the dark, and Brendon pulls out his phone to tell Spencer to get Ryan moving.

They waste most of the day in lines, but it doesn't feel like it with Jon there. Brendon hums a tune, and Jon follows along, and they might even get a new song out of this field trip. There are fans, of course, but nice ones, who want pictures, and one who even gives Brendon her mouse ears. They're the girl ones, with Minnie's red and white polka dot bow, which makes Ryan's eyebrows go up when they finally meet up and Spencer double over with laughter.

"You're wearing them on Space Mountain? That's so--"

"What?" Brendon accuses. "So gay?"

Ryan clenches his jaw and his mouth turns down. "I was going to say 'you.'"

Like they sense an oncoming storm, Spencer and Jon step forward to break things apart. The wait in line goes fast that way. Brendon tells Spencer about the waiting-in-line song he and Jon wrote, humming the melody and singing the chorus. Spencer smiles and bops along, even though Brendon knows he's not a fan of the frivolous songs. Spencer wants substance.

"You wanna make out with me on Space Mountain, Spencer?"

He turns his head. One corner of his mouth twitches. "How would that work?" Not a lot of rides here are makeout conducive.

They get inside the ride and get their seats--Brendon, then Spencer, then Ryan, then Jon. Brendon can't see anything but dark in the front, but he hears the flick of the lighter, and he smells it right away.

"Hey, pass that down this way," says a deep voice, all the way in the back. It doesn't sound like Zack. It could be some random dude, and everyone laughs.

Jon and Ryan end up hogging the whole joint, anyway. It passes to Brendon once, then he never sees it again. But he smells it, and he hears Ryan's voice start to go funny, and Ryan gets chatty when he's high, too.

Spencer gets quiet, calm, and sitting at the front in the dark, Brendon hardly knows he's there.

Ryan's hungry again, later, after they've tripped and stumbled themselves out of Space Mountain. Of course he's hungry, of course, but Brendon is, too, kind of, so he lets Ryan take point, and they all follow in a lazy line. Spencer holds him up with an arm around his waist, and Brendon leans in, sinks into Spencer's warmth.

"You wanna make out with me at dinner, Spencer?"

"Yeah, we can do that."

They can do that right here, now, Brendon decides, turning his face up to meet Spencer. He meets his chin first, kisses there, and nearly topples them both over trying to make it to Spencer's lips.

"Brendon, Brendon!" Jon turns and stop right in front of them, slamming them all together. "Sing that song for Ryan. He doesn't believe me how good it is."

They don't have all the words yet, but Brendon remembers how the chorus goes, and that's the best part anyway. Jon gives him a beat, Spencer holds him up, and Ryan even adds a harmony line once he's heard it enough times.

Brendon doesn't need beer or pot to have fun at Disneyworld. All he needs is his band and someone willing to hold him up when he falls. He'll thank Spencer for that later, when they get back on the bus, and maybe they can get a little further than that misdirected kiss.

-

"Oh my god why are you awake," Spencer rolls away from him the third time Brendon blows Spencer's bangs off his face for him. He can't even pretend he was trying to be helpful. He was trying to wake Spencer.

Spencer's hair had tufted out like Clover's around her neck, like when she was looking around after a noise, like when he'd breathed air into her fur, to see what she'd do. Spencer's reaction is really similar to Clover's but he's not surprised. He cuddles up close behind Spencer and blows into the hair on his neck.

Spencer jumps and twists, barking a shout into the pillow. If it'd been Clover Brendon would've called it yowling but it's Spencer so it's not, of course. He snakes an arm around and tries to cuddle Spencer close.

He's surprised when Spencer scrambles off the bed, away from him. "Out," Spencer points at the door. "Out, out, out."

Spencer likes his sleep but not the way Ryan does. And this is nothing more than Brendon's tried dozens of times. They even have a name for his Spencer-cat theory. Spencer jokes about it with him, with a blush in his cheeks and a duck to his head. Spencer doesn't really get embarrassed so Brendon knows it's something about him, about how it's his theory about Spencer, confided only when they're in bed.

"Spence," he reaches for Spencer.

"No, seriously," Spencer points at the door again, more emphatically. "I need some fucking sleep. Go down to the gym or lap the building or something, I don't care, just let me sleep."

Brendon pats the space next to him on the mattress then scoots away from it. "You can sleep here, I promise." He smiles one of his over-large but genuinely honest smiles, he thinks. Sometimes it's hard to remember which is which.

Spencer rubs one eye with the back of a curled fist and something in Brendon softens and expands, somewhere near his heart. It pushes away the playfulness that's been building inside him, makes him want to be careful instead. It surprises him.

"Here," he reaches over to smooth the sheets, still warm from Spencer's body heat. "I promise, I'll stop playing." Spencer doesn't respond but he does crawl slowly back into bed, squinting softly at Brendon the entire way. He smiles encouragingly back at Spencer, tempting him back into bed. "I don't wanna lap the building. I wanna stay in bed with you."

He can tell Spencer fights the grin that creeps across his face. He doesn't settle back where he was, he crawls to Brendon then over him, collapsing slowly down so his weight holds Brendon to the bed. "Yeah? You wanna sleep?"

He genuinely had, for about a minute, but now he wants more, since Spencer is draped over him, warm and grinning.

"Maybe later?" Spencer chuckles into his neck and starts in with gentle nibbling bites, not strong enough to leave a mark but strong enough to make him buck. "It's completely up to you," he gasps.

"Mmm," Spencer scratches his beard over Brendon's sternum. "Yeah it is," and Brendon has to smack his head lightly for using the fake porn voice. Spencer glares at him and scratches harder with his beard, hard enough it starts to burn but Brendon doesn't move. "OK," Spencer moves suddenly, lifting off him. "I do want to sleep more so let's do this."

He's left cold and on the verge of annoyed, the warm place in his chest replaced by scratchy skin. He holds in a pout, since he said it was up to Spencer.

"Don't worry, you'll like this," Spencer surprises him by ducking down and lapping at his not-quite-hard dick. He'd expected more, before they got to the actual sex part of the day, but if Spencer wants to suck him he's not going to argue, especially at four in the morning. A few seconds under Spencer's mouth and he's as hard as he needs to be for Spencer to get a good grasp on him.

He spreads his legs when Spencer pulls off to scratch at his thighs with his beard. He doesn't want any part of that near his balls but he doesn't really have a say, except, "You're on a kick today, with the beard," when Spencer doesn't stop.

"We're playful in different ways." Spencer stops, fucking finally, and soothes with his tongue. He can get behind that. "You should shave these," Spencer says thoughtfully between licks. He won't lie, his dick jumps at the thought. "Really?" Spencer pops up to look at him. "OK, then, deal," like he just agreed to something.

After that it's an onslaught of Spencer determination, sucking him with an open throat and a soft hum and Brendon is in no shape to resist. "This is a really bad reward for waking you," he informs Spencer when he can, when Spencer's crouched over him slowly stroking his own dick. Spencer shrugs, eyeing his chest speculatively. He arches and reaches up to play with his own nipple. He wants to give Spencer the best canvas possible.

-

The phone is ringing. Brendon lets it ring and ring and ring until Spencer's hand whips back to smack him. "It's on your side, asshole, answer it."

"Hello," a cheery voice greets him. "This is your 7:45 wakeup call."

"Uh huh." Which means it's too early for Brendon to have to deal with strangers.

"Can I send you up some coffee, sir?"

"Please." Brendon hopes he said that before he hung up the phone. He hopes he hung up the phone and didn't just let it drop from his fingers.

"Coffee?" Spencer rumbles, pressing his face into Brendon's neck.

"Yeah," Brendon agrees.

Everything feels loose and blurry. Half asleep and barely thinking, Brendon rolls over to meet Spencer in a kiss, which leads to hands, and their bodies pressed against each other. They don't even think about it, just kiss and touch, push and pull, and "Oh, oh, faster." Spencer goes slower instead, but they get there. It's one long crashing wave of pleasure, and when it's over, the bed swallows them up again. Brendon sleeps with the taste of Spencer's lips on his own.

It doesn't last long. Now there's someone knocking on the door.

"If that's Zack, I'll kill him," Spencer mumbles, then pushes Brendon out of bed. So he has to answer the door, too. Maybe they're still fighting.

As soon as Brendon's up, he's up. There's no getting back to sleep. Apparently they have an interview? Or something, Brendon wasn't paying attention. Zack will always get him there on time.

He pours coffee for them both--cream and too much sugar in one mug, black in another. When Spencer finally crawls out from under the covers and sits up, Brendon gives him the second mug. He holds it in both hands, taking tiny sips and making the same noises Brendon heard earlier that morning.

"Good?" Brendon asks. Spencer just holds out his mug for more.

Once Spencer is awake and occupied, Brendon heads into the bathroom. He washes up quick, shaving, brushing his teeth, then a quick smell test convinces him to take a shower after all. He steps back into the room naked, half laziness, half curious what Spencer will say.

"What took you so long?" He brushes past Brendon, not at all on purpose, and closes the bathroom door tight behind him. Spencer didn't even look.

Breakfast is even worse. He sits on Ryan's side of the table (who keeps looking over his toast at Brendon until Brendon realizes he's playing footsie with the wrong person). He sits with Ryan in the van. He has nothing to say except, "Let's not embarrass ourselves this time, huh?" Spencer doesn't look at Brendon when he says that, but there's no doubt.

Even Jon picks it up, jumping in to take the heat. "Fine, you don't want me talking about my cats," he says, with a pout. He pokes Brendon and gives him a grin, letting him in on the joke. "Fine, I get it."

"No, Jon." Spencer glares over his shoulder. "We don't want you talking about your cats.

Brendon pokes Jon back and whispers, "Sorry."

He thought they were fighting about Ryan, but that's exactly who Spencer sticks close to all day. They go through phases sometimes, those two, like they need to remind the world they're best friends. It only draws questions from interviewers, which Ryan hates, and Spencer ends up telling the same three stories again and again. He hates that, too, but he'd hate having to tell the other stories more.

They're always the stories from before Brendon, completely separate from Jon, and, if Brent was there, Spencer never says. It was him and Ryan. They had all the fun. They have all the memories.

In Brendon's experience, pushing Spencer will only prolong the fight. He has to wait. It sucks, and Spencer sucks for being that way, but it's not like Brendon didn't figure that out before.

So they do an interview, and they do a show, and Brendon looks, but he doesn't touch. He and Jon go out after dinner to get drunk, and they dance, if you can call it dancing. Jon calls it dancing, but he's drunk, too.

"You should totally put that move in the show." Jon holds him around the waist going through the revolving door, and they spin and spin and spin on the other side. "Ryan will hate it," Jon says when they get their balance again. "But you should totally do it anyway."

In the elevator, shoved in with fourteen other people, Brendon keeps his hold on Jon. He can't lose him now. "Hey." He leans in to whisper in Jon's ear. "Do you think Spencer will like that move?"

Jon grins. "I think he'll love it." He says it like he's so sure.

Brendon lets Jon go when they reach their floor, wandering their own ways to their own doors. Giving himself a head-clearing shake, Brendon gets the keycard to work on his first try. Jon always talks like he's so sure. Brendon likes it because he's never felt like that. He's never felt like things would work out. So he sticks close to Jon and hopes some of that confidence rubs off.

He leaves his clothes on the floor and pulls the blankets and sheets loose from the second bed in the room, newly made up, though it hasn't been slept in yet. It smells fresh and clean, unlike Brendon.

"I can hear you," Spencer rumbles. His eyes are closed when Brendon looks. "And I can smell you. Go take a shower before you get in here." He slides away from where Brendon's standing, but it's not away because he's making room in the bed.

They're not fighting anymore.

-

"Mmm," Brendon rouses when Spencer shifts on top of him. "Two for two, nice."

"Three for me." Spencer sounds insufferably smug. Brendon remembers Spencer's first, now Spencer mentions it. It was pretty nice, yeah, but nothing as nice as his.

"I am perfectly happy with my two," he states. It's not a lie, precisely, it's that he doesn't really want to do the work for another round, especially when he's feeling so sleepy-sated and comfortable in his skin. They've fucked and they've napped and they've fucked and they've drowsed. He's not sure another round could actually beat this.

"I'm not," Spencer shoves at him until he's all the way on his belly. He folds his arms and rests his forehead on them, making himself comfortable. Spencer rolls with him but Brendon misses Spencer's warmth curled over him instead of next to him. He misses the napping. He never sees the point to napping unless it's with someone else. With Spencer.

Spencer nips at the back of his neck as he runs a hand up and down his back soothingly. Brendon hmms in pleasure, soaking up every moment of touch. Spencer nips again, harder, and he shivers. He likes that too much to tell Spencer he likes it. He hopes Spencer knows.

Spencer's fingers enter him easily after one long sweep down his back. He's still slick from round one. He misses the napping but he'll take Spencer fingering him open all lazy and slow, as if there's nothing else to do with Brendon, nowhere else to go.

Spencer's breathing warmly into his ear, slow deep breaths that Brendon tries to match. "You're so quiet," Spencer whispers, after they're synced. "You OK?"

He hadn't realized it but he is quiet, especially for him. "Yeah, just." He shifts, resettles. Spencer's fingers go still inside of him. He doesn't know how to say the rest without sounding like a complete sap. "Just happy."

"Yeah?" Spencer sounds smug again. He wiggles, and Spencer's fingers curl inside him in response. "Yeah, OK."

That's the talking done, he hopes. Spencer shifts, draws away. Brendon murmurs his disapproval. He could get cold. Spencer grabs his hips, pulling him up onto his knees, and he realizes the next round's definitely begun.

"Be right back," Spencer squeezes his ass. He's tempted to drop back down, if Spencer's going to be gone, make Spencer work for it again when he returns. It's only moments before Spencer's back, immediately pressing a thumb to his hole. Spencer spreads a hot, warm washcloth over his lower back, drags it down, cleaning him by inches. He drops down from his hands to his elbows, since he understands. He knows now he's not going to be able to support himself for long.

They don't do this often. He clenches his hands when Spencer first starts licking, teasing licks around and down closer to his balls. Spencer waits until he's cried out, pleading, before he swipes across his hole, swipes and then flickers and Brendon's gasping for air, clenching his fingers and his toes. He loves this, loves that Spencer's giving him this.

"Spence," he gasps, "Spence, please." He's not asking for anything more than what Spencer's already doing but Spencer raises the stakes, thrusting his tongue inside. Brendon's trembling, small shivers wrecking havoc on his ability to stay in this position for Spencer.

Spencer's tongue disappears but his thumb pushes back in, as if it's saving the spot. "You wanna come like this or when I fuck you?" Spencer follows the question up with licks around his thumb, Brendon can't take it any more.

"Fuck me, oh god, fuck me," but Spencer doesn't stop licking, tiny little touches of his tongue. "Spencer," he bites out harshly, and Spencer stops.

"Fuck that was hot," Spencer's voice is rough, deep. Brendon twitches his hips, slides his knees further apart. He's nearly prone on the bed. He hears Spencer rustling, too long for his taste, but soon enough Spencer's pushing in to him.

He's not going to last long but he wants this round to be like this, to be together. They've been one-upping each other all afternoon, coming in turns. He's willing to say Spencer won, Spencer's won everything, if they can just work together on this round.

He laughs weakly at the sounds they've making, desperate and unsexy slapping and gasping. He can't turn far enough to see Spencer but Spencer smooths a hand down his back in the same motion from before, comforting and familiar inside the race for the finish. He braces himself on one elbow, gets his hand around his dick.

"Spence, I'm," is all he gets out before he's gone, tightening up and curling in. Spencer answers with a choked off laugh, joining him before he's finished, far faster than he would have expected.

-

Brendon is definitely a dude who enjoys watching television, lots of television if he can, but he constantly boggles at Spencer's ability to watch an entire series of something in one go, even if that go is stretched out over a few days. It's never over a week.

"This one's about Everest," Spencer explains, navigating through a menu. Brendon plans to go out and swim or something, doesn't want to watch the whole damn thing with Spencer, but he gets sucked in pretty quickly. "There's something about Everest, man," Spencer shakes in rueful acknowledgement when Brendon comes back with their third round of rum and cokes.

"Because it's there," he responds reverently. Spencer salutes him.

It becomes their catchphrase easily, way too easily. "Because it's there!" he shouts before he cannonballs into the pool.

"Because it's there," Spencer says as he packs a bowl from their new haul.

"Because it's there," he grins at Spencer before they line up to go out onstage.

Jon picks it up after Pete does, after a night out for sushi. Ashlee texts him asking what the hell they've done when Pete designs Bronx a series of onesies with the words over his diaper flap.

Ryan won't use it, since everyone else already is, but they almost, almost convince him to let them have a Because It's There tour.

"We'll save it for when he's desperate," Spencer decides, tying on an apron. Spencer's taken up home brewing between tours. He takes it really seriously. Brendon bought him the apron the first time he decompressed something wrong and ended up covered in smelly, yeasty hops water.

Brendon shrugs. He doesn't really care if they name the tour after an in-joke, as awesome as it sounds. He wants to get back out on the road. There are so many meetings and decisions. Some days he thinks he should just take a guitar and go to the boardwalk, twitter about it and see what happens.

"I think this one's ready for bottling!" Spencer turns to him with a grin. He's up for the challenge of watching Spencer wrestle with bottles and tubes, sure. It'll be amusing. And he'll probably get a taste.

"Wow, you're going to have a lot of beer, aren't you?" he observes as Spencer assembles everything. He's been listening as Spencer talks about it but hasn't been paying a lot of attention. When he needs real advice Spencer talks to a group of guys on some message board.

"Check it, I got custom labels." Spencer opens what Brendon realizes is a case of empty beer bottles.

"Dude," he grabs the bottle Spencer offers him. Spencer's custom label is for Because It's There beer. "You really don't fuck around, do you?"

"Not with beer," Spencer says firmly and Brendon laughs and has to go over for a kiss.

"You're awesome, Smith," he wraps his arms around Spencer, squeezing as tight as he can.

"Hugging after bottling," Spencer orders, but he gives Brendon a quick squeeze.

"I'll bottle you, baby," he squeezes Spencer's ass and steps away. "What can I do?"

What he can do is sit in a corner and look pretty, apparently. He's fascinated with the little machine Spencer has, to press the caps down onto the bottles, but the first time he tries to use it he fumbles something and it's geyser city.

"Zack is going to be so jealous." He texts Zack a picture of one case of the bottles.

"I know, right?" Spencer grins at him, devious. "I'm going to name an ale after him, I think. Don't know the name yet."

Brendon gives him names, gives him good names. Spencer shakes his head after each one but Brendon bets he recognizes the final name from something he suggested. It's how they roll.

When they're all done and chilling he decides Spencer deserves a reward. "Because it's there," he tells Spencer, sinking to his knees. It's not the first time one of them have made the joke. One of these days they'll grow bored with it. Maybe.

"Because you want to," Spencer says it in a chiding tone. What kind of response is that? Brendon rolls his eyes and swallows. Spencer goes up on his toes, painful for Brendon but worse for Spencer when he squeezes Spencer's balls.

"Because I can," he corrects after he swallows. Spencer's still gripping his hair tight. He might need to get it cut again.

"Well," Spencer hauls him up by his armpits, props him against the wall. "Then I can't not." Brendon agrees. Brendon agrees so hard, harder than his dick.

"And that's pretty hard." Spencer nods, licking the tip with quick flits of his tongue. Brendon wants it faster, expected it faster after Spencer's haste in getting him into position, but won't rush the issue. Rolling with Spencer's timing is the story of his life.

-

"What's up?" He holds the phone tight to his ear with one hand cup around the mouthpiece.

"You sound weird. Where are you?" Brendon sounds weird, too, shouting over squeaks and feedback, and the sound of a crowd of people in love with music.

"I'm in the bathtub."

"Spencer!" Brendon laughs. "Why are you in the bathtub?"

Everyone's in Chicago right now, except Brendon, so of course Spencer's phone rang in the middle of the party. Like Brendon knew, all the way from LA, that his friends were together and without him. He had to make his presence known, or maybe, somehow, he knew that Spencer was stuck in a weird conversation with Bob Bryar and needed a rescue.

"There were people making out in the kitchen," Spencer tells him. Brendon accepts it, as good a reason as any to answer the phone in the bathtub.

"You naked?" he asks. "Wet and slippery?"

Spencer's wearing corduroys and a vest. Ryan thinks this party is an important part of the band's image. He even made Jon wear shoes. The guy's been miserable all night, which is improbable for Jon, and impossible in Chicago. This party is just another at the Wentz house, another in a long line that Ryan calls their careers.

Brendon had to stay for a show with The Cab. He had to sing in the show, and Ryan glared and didn't like it at all, but Panic isn't on tour. He doesn't own any of them in this time they have off. Spencer agreed to come along because they had promised they wouldn't make Jon do all the travelling. And, really, he didn't have anything else to do.

"I'm wearing the Ryan Ross uniform." He sinks, sulkily, further into the tub. There's a yellow rubber duck balanced on the rim, and Spencer topples it easily with the toe of his shoe.

"Jon, too?" Brendon asks. Spencer hums a yes. "He must be dying."

"Poor Jon, poor Jon." Spencer mimes the violin, though Brendon can't see.

"Yeah, yeah, you didn't even ask how the show went."

"Oh, do you need to tell me how awesome you are? I'm sorry, I didn't realize we were having that conversation."

Nobody else gets it, and Jon always looks at him funny, shaming Spencer until Brendon says it's OK. Jon doesn't like to see anyone in the band upset, and he worries about Brendon in particular. It takes some hardcore Brendon cuddling before Jon forgives Spencer the yelling.

Tell him I'm not abusing you, Spencer has to say, every time. Brendon just laughs. He thinks chivalry is funny, especially when it's about him.

"Fuck it," Brendon says. "You know I rocked the house. Didn't I rock the house?" he asks, louder, away from the phone, and to the crowd still at the bar. A resounding YEAH comes crashing back, and Spencer hears it all the way from Chicago.

"When do we get our lead singer back?"

"Has Ryan written anything yet?"

The '80s soft rock and '70s disco they've been playing all night over Pete's impressive built-in sound systems suggests no. Ryan's been worried about the direction for this--their fourth album--for too long now. The third just kind of appeared. Spencer knew they had been working towards something, but when it finally happened, it was still a shock.

Ryan won't even start writing until they get into the studio, and they won't get into the studio until Brendon's done on tour, until they decide where the studio is. Ryan wants to bash out the whole album, cover to cover, in four weeks. He wants to challenge the band, he says. He wants to test Spencer's patience.

Instead of being a musician, right now, Spencer is drifting. He's sleeping on Jon's couch tonight, if they make it home. Maybe he'll just crash in the bathtub. There's a towel hanging next to his head. It's purple and fluffy, and fits under Spencer's neck when he rolls it up.

"Ryan isn't a writer at the moment," Spencer explains. "I'm not a drummer. Jon has forgotten what a bass guitar looks like. He'll be playing the xylophone next tour."

There's long pause where Spencer can't hear Brendon, but he can hear a girl standing nearby ordering a Slippery Nipple from a bartender who sounds like that type of douche who would take the opening and run way too far. Brendon takes his time, considering the stage antics they might get up to with Jon on the xylophone.

"Xylophone solos, Spence."

"No," Spencer warns. "How about you get me off instead?"

"Oh, now we get to the good stuff."

He unbuttons, unzips, unclothes, just enough. Spencer isn't even hard, but he figures, while he has Brendon on the phone. He hasn't yet dared jerk off at Jon's place. Despite years of close quarter masturbation on buses, it still feels wrong. So he wraps his hand around his dick and holds it, squeezing like a pulse, closing his eyes so he doesn't have to looking at the loofah hanging in Pete's shower. Spencer focuses on the sounds coming over the phone.

Brendon's at a club in LA. He's sweaty, just off the stage and surrounded by fans and strangers. He's not drunk, but he's been drinking. He and the Alexes probably shared a joint in the green room beforehand. He's smiling at Spencer, and Spencer gasps, pulls faster, but he's not going to come not yet. He's going to wait.

"C'mon," Brendon says, his voice a sharp rasp. "What are you waiting for?"

-

Their flights are an hour apart, though neither planned it that way. Jon gets into McCarran first. Spencer carries his guitar, Ryan takes the amp, and Jon keeps his own bags as they wander the airport, looking for somewhere and something to eat. Jon wants coffee right now and complains about the in-flight refreshments until they find the Starbucks.

"But other than that," Ryan prompts. They both sit on the other side of the table and watch Jon sink into his cup. "Glad to be back?"

When he looks up, over the rim and with foam tinting the edges of his beard, Jon grins. "Glad to be back."

They're all back in Vegas to record an album, though none of them live here anymore. Ryan flew in from New York first to make last minute arrangements. Spencer followed a day later to make sure the last minute arrangements actually got made.

They're staying in two houses this time around, out in the suburbs, next door to each other. One has the basement for their studio. The other has extra rooms for everyone else who will inevitably show up during the process. But, to start, it'll be just the four of them.

No one has said anything or agreed on anything yet, but Spencer can figure out the living arrangements for himself. Ryan and Jon will take the studio house. It's just easier that way, so they can keep up their musical mutual masturbation. And when he arrives, Brendon and Spencer will move in to the house next door.

Brendon's coming from Toronto, after three months of making a movie. Spencer's been in LA, working with bands, and Brendon kept calling and asking, and Spencer tried, but he couldn't get up to Canada. Which means it's been three months since they've seen each other. It's not that bad, not if Spencer doesn't think about it.

"The movie looks awesome," Jon is telling them now. Apparently he went up and stayed a few days with Brendon last month. "I didn't see a whole lot--it was kind of a slow time for him, which is why I went then--but he's really good, guys."

Ryan cocks his head, resting his cheek on one gloved hand. "You didn't think he'd be a good actor?"

"I guess I didn't think about it," Jon says. He tips his cup up high, not wanting to leave anything behind. "I don't think about..." he trails off, searching for the right word.

"You don't think about the outside world?" Spencer offers. Jon throws his empty cup at him.

Ryan's starting to get restless, so Spencer goes up to the counter to buy three chocolate croissants and a bear claw, and they head to the gate to meet Brendon.

He has one little duffel bag, that's it, which is good, because Jon packed his whole life. It makes sense--he's not going back to Chicago until they finish the album. Brendon took one little duffel bag to spend three months in another country, away from what and who he knows. Spencer couldn't even get on a plane. He holds out his arms for a hug, Jon's guitar at his feet, but Brendon chooses the bear claw instead.

"Thanks, Spence," he says, through a too-big mouthful.

Jon attacks him from the side. They do an awkward half hug. Ryan just waves, but he's smiling. He even offers to carry Brendon's bag.

"Let's get this show on the road," Jon says, and they all follow him, a neat straight line, except Jon doesn't know where he's going. Ryan skips ahead to walk with him. Spencer doesn't trust Ryan's navigation any more, but he keeps an eye on them.

"Happy to be back?" he asks Brendon. Spencer switches Jon's guitar case to the other hand so it's not bumping between their legs. Brendon's still eating his bear claw. Spencer picked the biggest one.

Brendon swallows. He's nodding, but the first thing he asks is, "What's the weather like?"

The next five minutes is winding their way through the crowds and out of the airport, careful not to lose Ryan and Jon, off in their own world, looking for the car, the Jeep Spencer rented for the month because it seemed practical somehow. Brendon complains about the cold in Toronto the whole time.

"But you know it's cold up there?" They've done shows there, and Montreal is even colder.

"Three months, Spence. I don't think you get it. Three Hell-has-frozen-over months. I thought I might lose my balls."

The shock of that forces a laugh out of Spencer, a burst he can't control, which makes Ryan and Jon stop and turn and look.

"Don't worry," Brendon says, leaning in close. "I'll let you check later."

They haven't seen each other in three months, but they text and talk on the phone most every day. Spencer hasn't had much of a chance to miss Brendon, but he's missed that grin, the way Brendon's eyes go big behind his glasses or just when he's happy. It makes no sense that their reunion should be here, in a crowded airport parking lot, Ryan and Jon watching and waiting for Spencer to unlock the Jeep.

"Lots more later," Spencer promises.

-

Sometimes, Brendon just likes to do it himself. Sure, it's a little more to clean-up, but it's worth it when one wants to come fast and without the hassle.

"I know exactly what you mean," Jon says. They're laying head to toe on Brendon's bed, listening to the fight downstairs, still going strong, coming loud through the floor. They even closed the door, both doors--to the studio and to Brendon's room--but Ryan and Spencer have been working up to this all day. Maybe all their lives. It's a loud one.

"I never know when he's gonna want it." Brendon has his banjo and is picking aimlessly. He keeps it next to the bed for practice. It's the only instrument not in the music room, not locked in with Ryan and Spencer and their BFF issues.

"Oh, it's the worst," Jon agrees. "We finished the song! Let's celebrate! Blowjobs for all!" He drops off his elbows to glare at the ceiling. "But no. Apparently, finishing a song means more time to start the next one."

Brendon rolls up on the bed. He rests his chin on Jon's stomach. "Which song did you write while you were gagging for Ryan's cock?" he asks, and Jon knees him in the side.

He spits back, "Your mom's gagging for it." Brendon wasn't expecting it at all, even though he should have, and they both laugh long and loud. That part's easy with Jon. Ryan and Spencer would just look at them funny.

When the laughter turns into catching their breath, Brendon says, "Hey. You ever--" then stops. He can't ask that. Jon's head pops up from the bed. His best friend in the band, but Brendon can't ask that.

"What? What can't you say after that?"

"You ever come too fast?" Brendon asks. "You know, because it's been so long?" he adds quickly.

"And you just really want it." Jon nods. "Fuck."

The way they're lying together on the bed, Brendon's just noticed how much of Jon he can feel. Jon's hard, or getting there. The muscles in his stomach and thighs are trembling.

"Jesus. I need a drink." Jon pushes Brendon off and slides to the floor. "You want a drink?" he asks at the door, but Brendon doesn't need to nod. Jon's bringing the whole bottle back to bed.

When Jon opens the door, it's perfectly timed to hear Spencer shout, so clear, "Maybe I'll start my own fucking band!"

Brendon pulls a pillow over his head.

Spencer doesn't think that Ryan and Jon are fucking. He says it's just stoned blowjobs and fawning praise. "It's not a relationship," Spencer said once, coming to the end of a rant and a pot of coffee. "It's a duet."

Brendon and Spencer fuck, but he's also never heard Spencer call it a relationship. They do a lot of stoned blowjobs, too, which is just confusing. Not as much fawning praise, though.

He pops the top button on his jeans and rests his hand there, on the skin just above. There's every chance Jon will get distracted by something downstairs. Maybe Jon is doing this downstairs, too. Maybe Spencer and Ryan have stopped fighting in favour of something more fun. Brendon has time.

He slides his hand down, the zipper coming open between his fingers as he does. No underwear--they haven't done laundry since they started recording. They haven't done much of this, either, since they started recording. Brendon is hard and stroking himself harder before he really decides to do this. He's gagging for it; he didn't know.

He goes fast, right away, because the friction feels good and there's every chance Jon won't get distracted by something downstairs. The last thing Brendon needs to Jon seeing him come too fast. But there's a time and a place for drawing it out. The whole band under one roof is not the time, it's not the place. Brendon may have a whole bed to himself, but this is bunk masturbation.

A hand, a dick, eyes closed, and a quick flash of Jon's eyes, Ryan's fingers, Spencer licking his lips. That's all Brendon needs. He shoots quick and hard, but that was the point. He feels cold and sticky, and his lungs are burning, chest heaving. Brendon tries to lay still and let himself calm. He rolls his neck to loosen it up, and that's when he notices Spencer is watching from the doorway.

So caught up in the feeling and the need, Brendon didn't hear the door open. But he does hear Spencer laughing.

"You ready to get back to work?" Spencer asks. He's wearing the black shirt, unbuttoned more than Brendon's seen before. White jeans, going grey after days without washing, and Brendon thinks he knows what Spencer's wearing underneath.

"Yeah," Brendon says. He pulls off his t-shirt that he's already used to wipe his hand. "Get over here."

-

"I want to do a song for Chicago," Brendon announces.

"Hmm?" he's on his computer. If Spencer encourages Brendon and Brendon keeps speaking that means it's most likely directed at him. He'll figure out soon enough if he really needs to pay attention.

"I think we should do a song for Chicago," Brendon waves a hand between his eyes and his screen. "You know, for Jon."

"What, like," he leans back and tilts his screen to follow him, away from Brendon's interference. "Do a song from Chicago in Chicago?"

Brendon frowns at him, a puckered pout of disapproval. "No, I mean." He circles his hands in the air, like that will make Spencer understand without words. Spencer huffs and stretches his back, arching away from Brendon.

"In English please." He cups his hands together in a bridge, leans back, really stretches his back out this time. His back cracks as he leans over the divider between bus seats. Brendon knows better than to tickle him but he feels the potential, the interest. He sits back up and sees, yeah. Brendon was about three seconds from touching his belly.

"It's not that hard," Brendon takes a step back, away from his glare. "We find some song that is about Chicago or mentions Chicago or whatever and we sing it at that show."

He considers it. "I dunno." He scratches his beard. "That stop's where we record. Do we really want to deviate from the setlist for the show that's being taped?"

"Where's your sense of adventure, Smith?" Brendon steps closer again, jabbing one finger forward. It's almost as if he's a fencer, making his attack. "Where's your sense of style?"

"How are we going to learn a new song to play without Jon?" He flips his laptop screen back to where it should be.

"I can do it acapella" Brendon takes another half step forward but his finger is no longer raised. Feinting, Spencer thinks.

"Hmm." He doesn't look over. Brendon'll present him with a solution or he won't.

"We could get Ryan to distract him? Zack to tie him up?" Brendon sits down on the seat next to him with a gusty sigh.

"Or you could find something else to do for his birthday." Spencer does not understand the stealth present war between Brendon and Jon. Jon tried to explain it once but got confused halfway through, switched to explaining March Madness for the third time.

"Pfffft," Brendon slouches down until he's nearly horizontal, his knees bumping with Spencer's. "This has a much better chance of success."

"Oh yeah?" he opens his download box, trying to figure out how long he has before these episodes finish. At least half an hour.

He shuts his laptop, puts it on the table. Brendon might have responded, he's not sure.

"Hey," he tries.

Brendon switches from staring at the ceiling to looking at him, one eyebrow raised.

"I'm sure Jon would appreciate it if you learned a song about Chicago. But maybe we save it for somewhere else on the tour." Brendon pouts again. "For when he's homesick," he explains. "He doesn't need a song about Chicago in Chicago."

"Why Spencer Smith," Brendon's smiling widely. "You were listening."

He frowns at Brendon. He always listen he just picks and chooses when he responds. "Well, yeah."

"I think you deserve a reward for that," Brendon pushes himself down further on the couch, twists out of it into a slick flip off of the couch.

"Oh really?" he spreads his legs so Brendon can work.

Brendon smirks up at him. "Just this once." Brendon's been on a blowjob kick lately. Not that Spencer would complain, he just finds it interesting. Catch Ryan and Alex one time and it's like there's a bus competition. Brendon always has to win when there's competition, Spencer knows this. If he were a smarter man, or a more desperate one, he would have engineered that instead of stumbled upon it.

"I think I always deserve a reward," it doesn't matter what he says, a long as he can talk to keep Brendon thinking he has an adversary.

"You certainly do this time," Brendon works him out slowly, carefully. "Your reward looks like it's happy to see me." He ducks forward and Spencer's breath catches as Brendon's tongue darts out to lick.

"That doesn't even make any sense." His eyes slip closed as Brendon goes from establishing touches to rhythmic ones. It's a slow one, slower than either of them ever really bother to go. "Wow, Brendon." He carelessly twines his fingers in Brendon's hair. He loves it long like this. It feels like it's his.

He loosens his grip to let Brendon work. Brendon's mouth is Brendon's mouth and Brendon's knowledge of Spencer means this really is an excellent experience, Brendon's fists clenched tight and pressing against his thighs, Brendon's rhythm hitching if Spencer holds him down.

"You're still not getting that song," he gasps. Brendon sucks harder.

-

"Back to the same old place," Brendon sings, then he swings around to hand the next line over to Jon.

"Sweet home, Chicago." The crowd joins in, and Jon just beams.

After the show, they stay in Jon's big empty house. There's dust on everything. It's been months since he's been home. He decides he wants to make dinner--no pizza--so Spencer and Ryan sit together on the couch in the living room, listening to Jon and Brendon in the kitchen, singing that song again.

"We should have been recording," Ryan says. He's curled up on his side, head on the armrest, feet in Spencer's lap. "That was our best show in Chicago. We should have been recording."

"There will be more shows."

He turns over on his back, and Ryan's eyes flutter open while Spencer is watching. "You really believe that, don't you?"

Spencer shrugs. "I'm always up for a reunion show."

It's not that they're breaking up, not anytime soon. But even this tour, coming to its end now, was four years late and a bitch to coordinate. Ryan called Spencer, who told him Brendon was getting antsy, and Jon was on the extension, begging to get out on the road. Now, months later, Jon was happy to be home, and Spencer didn't know what he would do with himself when all this was over.

Brendon just keeps singing.

They're making something that smells like garlic and onions. Spencer isn't allowed in the kitchen until they're done.

"We want to cook something for you," Brendon insisted. He was wearing a flower print apron and holding up a pair of tongs like a threat.

Jon looked embarrassed standing over Brendon's shoulder. "You know how you get," he said, so not too embarrassed. Then they shoved him out of the way, and now Spencer's stuck on the couch with Ryan.

"I'm going to fall asleep in my plate of whatever it is those two are making."

"Maybe," Ryan mutters into the couch, "they'll serve it in bowls."

The day started too early, on the radio, then a barrage of reporters and the same damn question again and again, and Spencer doesn't feel up to this. He has just enough energy to lift his hand and smack Ryan.

They eat, finally, and Ryan's smug throughout the whole meal because it is in bowls.

"This is really good," Spencer says, even though the pasta is overcooked and the garlic might have gone too far to bitter, but there's enough cheese to mask everything, and Spencer's just too hungry to care.

Brendon grins, and he claps his hands when Spencer offers to do the dishes. "You, too, Ryan," and Spencer has to drag him into the kitchen.

They do the job quietly, no blues refrains or off-key claims of loving this town. Not that Spencer doesn't love Chicago, but the washing and drying goes so much faster when Ryan's not distracted with melody.

He's staring at Spencer, though, an odd look in his eyes and a towel in his hands. "You're such a sap," Ryan tells him, shaking his head. He leaves Spencer the last pot to himself, the one with a hard-cooked layer of food on the bottom. Screw it. Spencer fills the pot with hot water and soap and lets it soak the night. He's going to bed.

Brendon is there, of course, waiting. Spencer kind of expected that. "What's up?"

They'll probably have sex tonight. Spencer can usually tell when they're heading in that direction. But it's been a while, especially on this tour. The space and the time between them all feels like more than it's ever felt before. Jon and Ryan are elsewhere, doors closed up tight because Spencer can't hear any music. They haven't been writing during this tour.

Brendon wants to. He always the one who wants to. The last Panic at the Disco album only happened because Brendon sat on Ryan's chest and sang every insult that came out of Ryan's mouth until they had a song.

Brendon wants this, too. He sits up against the pillows and lets the sheets fall to his lap. He stretches and twists and makes tiny grunting noises until Spencer gives in. Before it gets too embarrassing for Brendon, Spencer strips down, crawls up the bed, and puts him out of his misery.

A couple of quick kisses, Spencer rubbing his nose across Brendon's jaw, and Brendon squeezing Spencer's shoulder, and then he flips them onto the bed. Spencer lands on his back. Brendon really wants this tonight.

"It's been a while," Spencer says. He says it in his most casual voice, not the easiest thing to achieve with Brendon between his legs and palming his cock. They rise and fall together, fighting for contact and chasing after their climax.

Brendon whispers, "I was waiting for Chicago." It might be a confession or the start of a new song. But it only makes sense to Brendon.


End file.
